TO LIVE

I know I haven’t yet reached my breaking point. Because a person is never burdened with more than they can bear. But do I want to see my own limit? Today, once again, those weights—not heavy enough to push me past my limit—settled onto my back, yet still bent me over. And yet, all of this arose from just a single fleeting moment—that brief instant when I had to log into my bank account.

Every time, I log in with fear. It’s easier to spend all my money at once than to check my balance and see what’s left. As it dwindles, so do I, day by day. Then comes a moment of clarity, when there’s nothing left in the account. The clarity of "Who are you?" My back bends a little more. Lately, when I feel like other people weigh on me more than I weigh on myself, I swallow my words. The burden I am to myself is greater than anyone else’s burden on me. And all of this came from trying *not* to be a burden to myself. Really, who am I?

I’m sure only I know who I am. Maybe it will always stay this way, never changing. I’m posting these words here, trusting in this comfort. I know no one will read them. Otherwise, you’d have read "The Spiral Curve," which I wrote with great enthusiasm and boosted with moves I thought were quite clever, right? So I guess I’m not that smart after all. But I still don’t think intelligence is the real issue. Of course, I still consider myself intelligent. I think the real problem is that I’m a ghost.

As if I don’t exist in this living, breathing world. As if, with each passing day, I grow a little more invisible, melting away into nothingness. Tell me—is this gradual fading of mine tied to my bank account also dwindling day by day? Or are these thoughts just figments of my imagination? If so, then why do I grow more invisible in people’s eyes with each passing day? Or are people themselves becoming more indifferent and cruel by the day?

I write these lines, confident in my invisibility. Crying, belittling myself—it’s not in my nature. I clung tightly to a dream. But the dream didn’t cling to me. Now I’m falling, hard. Still, let no one know I’ve fallen. As far as anyone’s concerned, everything’s fine, and I’m still standing tall. If there’s a bent soul inside me, who cares anyway? I don’t even want people’s help. That’s probably one of the most wretched states to be in. I’ll just keep living with resignation and effort, knowing I haven’t reached my limit. Speaking of living—there’s a life out there too, isn’t there? I’m not missing out on the whole living thing, am I? Or do I really have the right to be invisible, living all alone in this vast world? Am I the only one who owns all this suffering?