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euthanasia
Wednesday, October 9, 2013, 10:36 PM

A year it has been.

1 year.

12 months.

52 weeks.

365 days.

8765 hours.

525949 minutes.

31536000 seconds.

Every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of that year was spent breathing. I would say all that time was spent being alive, but then that would be a blatant lie. I was breathing, yes. My heart was pumping blood, rushing through my veins like a river running wild, every inhale carried oxygen into my lungs where it then seeps into my bloodstream and travels all over the continent that is my body - every pant and gasp and huff and puff courtesy of sleepless, sweaty nights and lonely, lethargic mornings. Converting oxygen into carbon dioxide like it's my full-time job, compensated by the very fact that I am still alive to live another day.

Was I existing? Yes. If only I was of existence.

Seconds turn into hours, hours turn into days, days go by like the tears running down the structures of my cheeks. My face was a map and my tears paved a one-way road taken every day for as long as my heart was still pumping red. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this hollow. I was aware of every single thing that was happening around me but it was of no significance to me in every way possible. I could hear every heartbeat, every breath, every step, every accidental teeth grinding; and to think that it should've driven me (at least close) to insanity but to my surprise, it didn't. It has made me desolated more than anything else.

Empty, I was.

Not lonely, or angry; just hollow, from my toes to my skull. He left me lying askew on my apartment floor for days, wondering - racking my brain - for exactly what it is that made him walk away. I can't even remember when was the last time I felt his fingertips grazing against my skin, or the last time he looked right into my eyes when I uttered something. I can feel his stare scanning my face, but never did it once make direct contact with my eyes, which have now turned into two pools of melancholia, filled up to the brim waiting to spill. And I told him.

I told him exactly how I felt. I told him - between the short gasps for air and the persistent weeping - that I just felt lost and undefined. My life was a labyrinth and everything was an obstacle in my path. He seemed like an obstacle to my then clouded judgment. I was selfish, unstable, and emotional. He was sick, tired and bored of my 'antics'. I knew it, but I refuse to let my stubborn self believe in the fact that the one person I thought would be able to read my mind cannot even make a tiny dent on this impenetrable wall I have built around me. I was experiencing a blizzard of thoughts and emotions but all I felt was... empty.

Little did he know that to me, 'empty' was just another word for 'open'.

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