Meaning of Life Creative Writing: Still Here

Note: This is creative writing based on philosophical ideas of life. 

Still here

by Maria Jose Vargas, Y11 

Laying here I ask myself why I am here, why do I take up space, why was I born, and why I am still here, and I can't find an answer. Laying here I realise I still breathe but I don't know why. Laying here looking at my blank ceiling I imagine that it is the sky, a type of sky I have never seen before, clouds made of sugar and a kind of blue that is always clear and bright, the type of sky you almost never get to see, a sky full of hope, a sky that gives me will to finally stop lying here and do something with myself, find meaning, but then I remember that this sky is not real and it's only a black wall. Lying here, fantasising about things that will never be real, and my feelings are still hurting me, even in my sleep. I turn around, now facing my wall. Curling up in the blanket that doesn't smell like home, but of sadness, desperation, and dried tears, people often tell me I am an existentialist for seeing life as an empty meaningless path, but I like to think I am a realist, that doesn't get caught up in fantasies and sees life for what it is: A meaningless white space, a vicious cycle of repeating a day over and over again. Laying here I remember my days consist of tearing myself apart piece by piece in front of the mirror until there is nothing left but my empty soul laying in my bed.

Lying here I remember the way I used to smile, but not the fake smile I use now, but the real one, the smile I really meant, the laugh that came after it, a laugh that made my tummy hurt. I don't know what that feels like anymore. My face is full of aging lines that only show faked happiness, disguising the real emptiness I feel because I laugh while I cry, love while I hate myself, pray when I don't believe, and sing while my voice is slowly disappearing, evolving into the scream my pillow will silence because I will never let anyone truly know the agony I feel, and how I cry myself to sleep.

Laying here I go back to what does not let me sleep. I wonder what’s my purpose? What's the reason I live? I don’t like to think I am suicidal. I just feel like sometimes lines get blurry with the mist and fog I must go through every day. I am lucky! I know! There is no reason I should feel like this, but I do, and I don't know how to make it stop.

Laying here I turn off my alarm and force my body to get up, see myself in the mirror and paint my fake smile, go downstairs, drink my 20mg of fake happiness, and get ready for another suffocating day.

Standing here, under the water droplets running through my fragile body, I close my eyes, slowly losing balance, ending up curled up in a corner replacing water droplets with tears. I want to scream but I can't find my voice. I get up and slowly dry myself, dropping my towel. I see my reflection, I hate what I see, bony flat bodice, flavorless skin, big thighs, wide shoulders, narrow hips, weak legs, eye bags, my face, my body, I hate them, I can't take it anymore!

Standing here, in front of broken glass pieces, I wash my bloody hand and leave the bathroom, wrap my hand and dress slowly, comb my hair, and walk out the door.

Standing here, waiting for the cars to pass, I wonder what would happen if I step before the green turns red, how would that feel, would I feel relief? Green turns red, I observe the streets I walk by, think about all the lives I don't know about, think about all the things I am not, think about turning back and sinking into bed, think about not breaking down in the middle street, I can’t control my thoughts while I try to pass through people and look fine when I am not, and the irony here is that I don't even know why I bother, because nobody really cares.

Sitting here, I reflect on what my life has come up to, sitting in a classroom full of people looking at a big whiteboard trying to take notes but my hand doesn't seem to work. The lines get blurry, I try to remember how hard I fought to get in here and now I just want to leave, I thought this was my dream and now I don’t have any, I’m empty as life itself.

Standing here, in the middle of a house I don’t know, lights blinding me and music so loud that I can’t hear myself think, I feel safe, I feel safe from my thoughts with the cup almost empty in my hand, the cup I will soon enough fill again, and again, and again until I forget everything, until I feel alive for two seconds, two seconds that feel infinite, the two seconds I always try to forget. Don’t get me wrong, this is not something I do, this is not me, but then again I have forgotten who I am.

Walking here, in the empty dark streets, trying to remember my way home, I wonder what happened to me, I’ve changed, this is not what I imagine I would become, I hate this, I hate the things I do, I hate that I don't stop feeling empty all the time, I hate walking alone in the streets having nowhere to go but a place I can’t call home.

I get home, undress slowly and get into bed, I can't sleep. I stare at the blank ceiling, maybe I should hang something so I can't distract myself from this white space I compare my life to. I want to cry, to scream, to let it all out, but nothing comes out, that is when I realise I am just too sad to cry.

Laying here, I close my eyes, hoping I don't open them tomorrow

Laying here I wake up, my eyes are wide open, I breathe, I feel my heart pounding and I face it, I am still here….