Little did I notice that the more I tried to understand life, the more I accept the tragedies-- the more I suffocate.
Imagine you've established your comfort zone, your go to place, and it suddenly fell apart-- nope, worse-- it suddenly collapsed. Into bits and pieces, not even leaving a single part to be remembered.
The more I tried to understand life, the more it took me deeper to my darkest fear--
Not having anyone, nor anything.
Was it my fault to rely my happiness, my thoughts, my whole entire life on something so complicated?
Shouldn't it be something pleasing when you're kept as someone's key to their happiness?
The more I accept the tragedies, the more it took me to places I never want to go--
A place where my life were just filled with series of unexpected nightmare.
I didn't try to run away from what befalls me, in fact, I did live with it.
Wasn't it supposed to get better once you accept the cruelty of life?
The more I suffocate, the more I drowned myself in whatever I could do to end it.
It just hasn't gone to the worst part.
Being completely gone.
