The Memory of Light

by Francisco X. Stork

is possible, I realize, to have people in your life who love you and who you love, and to still want to kill yourself. It’s almost as if part of the reason you’re doing it is for them, because you are not worthy of their love, and you want to stop being a burden to them, contaminating their lives with your moodiness and grumpiness and miserableness.

Sooner or later, the days, hours, minutes, and seconds of my life will slowly choke me until I feel like the only way to breathe is to die.

Body pain is obvious. Heart pain is the pain that comes from others, when they love you too much or not enough or the wrong way. Soul pain comes from feeling your life is one big waste. Mind pain is what I can’t figure out. It’s like when you throw body, heart, and soul pain into a blender, then you add a cup of disgust at all that you are, at all that you’ve become, at all that you will ever be.

the words inside your head cause pain.

“I don’t feel sad,” I say. “I don’t feel anything. I hardly ever think of her. How could I feel sad after so many years?”