I believe I’m resilient. I’m even hyper independent, strong enough to deal with things I don’t talk about alone. I could deal ten times worse situations than this and I’d still show nothing but a smile on my face pretending this is a good life to live in.

I have been through a lot of misery, and I don’t seek pity from people who hear my stories. I don’t tell anybody about the past for it does not exist, and I tell them I live an ordinary life. I know people have their own crazy stories that they love to share to inspire, motivate, and to show others the diversity of the genres we play. I learn from those stories, the pages of journal philosophers left me, and the elder’s advice five days before they were buried.

I choose to be strong, even when the world allows me to let down.

When I met you, I knew you worked three times harder than I did, and that inspired me, so I observed more and more; how you walked, you rested, you yelled at the higher principals because they weren’t the best. You have survived a lot of storms and I have been your sole witness. I wanted to be strong like you, until you saw me too.

Us compared — I am just a little frog in the pond, and you are the killer whale in the ocean. I feel small around you, I am — small. And I never liked being small until today, watching the greatness of yours, I’m one touch away to start praying for your name. You are aware of our differences, and you choose to unite us, kiss me on my weakest spot until I have no shame to show you all my parts.

For years I have spent my time shrinking, shutting people away because there is no way they can relate, but you embrace me and teach me how to grow. I have read sixty seven books you gave me, and I confess that you are still the best author, for writing you. So majestic, so divine, that I start calling you when I seek a miracle. I have failed you so many times, you say “I can forgive you more” as if you never felt pain in the first place, unbothered.

Anyway, this was not supposed to be about you but I got carried away. This is a story about me trusting my soul a little too much to someone who sees everything, and nothing at the same time. I’m seen, and ignored at the same time. I am so in love with the idea that you would teach me how to survive, but you are not a frog, you don’t survive simple things I struggle with. Is this how people see me — like I see you with all your major pasts that made you, you? There’s dark, and then there’s you.

I have decided to step backwards lately, because I notice you have never noticed. I suppose we don’t relate and nobody does relate to all the differences we were born with. I have learned that some people are divine, does not mean they can be my god. I’m still the savior of my life, and I am all alone in this path.

I need to sew my mouth shut so I stop talking about the dark, and to nail my hands to the wall so I stop leading you into my heart.

My eyes are blue, but you’ll see me smile. On overwhelming days, I’ll hug you and tell you that you’ve done amazing things. My finger runs into your hair, brushing your cheek, landing kiss on top of your head, “I love you, baby. Don’t you cry, it will soon pass, I miss your smile.”

 — Yes, we’re just strangers, it’s just lovely me.

.

Five days of the week, you’ll find me at the shop. I get complaints from people who spent cents on crops. They take a long time to grow, through heavy storms and rainbows. I spend hours, from dawn to sundown, wasting energy for tiny bits of ecstasy. They call me ugly, not competent because I’m young, “kindness and apology will not help you survive.”

 — Yes, you’ll see the same smile, it’s just lovely me.

.

Is that you at the party staring right at me? You are wearing a gorgeous dress, meanwhile I’m drowning in an oversized shirt. My hair is a bird nest, I hate my freckles too, but it’s okay, ’cause nobody sees me. As you catch my eyes again, you can pretend I’m not here. They group with the coolest, and it is not me. Am I sad? No, I’m busy tasting fondue and spicy cake, talking to the plant next to me, drinking coke till I burp loudly.

 — Yes, you can tell I’m happy, it’s just lovely me.

.

Tonight it’s raining hard, I’m locking the door. I live alone, with a small bed and old books. My breath is the only company that reminds me that I’m just lonely. Sometimes, thinking life isn’t fair. But lucky me, I’m busy doing things to make a living, telling myself fake truth about me. I buy myself gifts because they never give, all unopened stacked on my desk. My blanket is the best hugger, my TV talks to me, such a free online therapy.

— Yes, you can see me pretending, living in misery, wearing a mask towards false positivity, but if you take a few steps backwards, it’s just lovely me.

But they don't do it anymore now.

They would only say how disappointed they are for me being like this, as if I should’ve just kept it to myself and pretended I’m dead fine — like it helps, like it’ll change my mind. And the strangers, they would just post my worst sides on social media, either gain fame or money from it. After all, we do what is convenient for ourselves, don’t we?

It’s also funny, the moments people tell me I’m charming, I’m happy, I’m funny, and all I do is agree. I’ll take it as a compliment about how well I am hiding myself from them, because they cannot handle what’s uncomfortable underneath me.

One day, they say, “you talk too much” and another day they say, “you’re too quiet”, which is also funny, because they just seem to never be satisfied — not that I plan to satisfy . They say things they wish I’d become, and those are better than compliments because they’re right, but I’ve said worse things to myself; like I’m stupid, I’m ugly, I’m better off dead.

I don’t know what makes you happy, but I think you should thank me instead that today I’m not dead.

So, let’s just live, shall we? Give me some time to just be away from everyone because they only want to see what they want to see, and I am mostly not one — the one you want to see is just not me.

Stop saying I’m strong, because strong doesn’t sit in the corner counting days thinking of how many more wounds it takes to stop the time. Stop saying I’m pretty, because pretty doesn’t put so many layers of mask just so I don't lose my mind.

It was a cold noon in the north Asia. I stayed with Roy for months, and one day another friend of ours gave us a visit. It was supposed to warm us, or me. It did, it just didn't start that way.

“He’s too busy,” I overheard Roy saying it to Sonya, she just stepped in to the game room to relax with both of us, yet I wasn’t in the room.

“Always been!” she screamed, “so many jobs, just to distract him from his own feelings.”

“What do you think he is feeling?” Roy asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? Grief? Loneliness? Something that isolates him because he fears of connection, refusing to pay the price of loss.” she uttered bluntly.

“I don’t think he fears of connection, he connects a lot.”

“To check on people, sure. Nobody really knows how he is feeling, when it’s his turn he flees.”

I left before I heard more, it suffocated me how I did not even know if it was true. Maybe it’s true. All these hours spent for money that I saved, I just ended up spending every single dime for someone else, or anyone else, really. I don’t dream, I don’t hope to become something. All I earned could just relive someone else’s dream.

I walked through the forest instead, further and further away from the small town I called home, for now. I thought I was just looking for fresh air, cold greetings from dews on the leaves that almost froze, and the sound of the rubber of my sneakers against the crisps of fallen branches on the ground. It was cold in midsummer. I kept walking.

I sat upon a huge pine, rested my back after six thousand steps deep into a zone that I probably shouldn’t be in, but it was calm and comforting. Despite the cold, it’s only Siberia, reminding me of what people on the North Pole do to warm themselves, what Santa does to stay cozy.

“Dear Santa,” I thought to myself, no one listened but the shoulders and the knees wrapped into the same scarf. “What are you doing in the summer?”

Nobody questioned that. Nobody wondered if he had a break or he spent all year considering which kids are bad or good. Nobody thought of his leisure trips, for he’s not human, having no need of pleasure except for others. There was no story of how he overcame the bad days, unless, being busy was the whole story.

Well, I’m not a saint. I definitely don’t help people because I’m good. If anything, I help them because I’m not, therefore I don’t deserve the good things I fought for. There’s nothing good in my story, except when there were people in it — the ones I shared my life with. If it wasn’t for them, I’d rather jump off the bridge, but I’d have to erase my own existence for it just so people don’t feel miserable towards the tragedy.

“If you died before winter,” I wonder, “would you feel peace because you’re dead, or would you feel chaos because people would grieve about you, expecting you to come by in winter and they see nobody?”

Does Santa kill himself in summer, and revive to let people know he is okay? No one cares what Santa does, as long as they’re good, as long as there is sound when they shake their hung sock. He doesn’t need to tell people he’s okay. People know that. But they know only that.

I stood up, I walked back because I had many things to finish today. Back to the town where I met Roy and Sonya again, and they waved their hand a little, just a simple hi, offered me a drink, and a hot pot soup.

I refused with a smile, and walked away. I just wanted to die in the summer, and revive in the winter to say hi.

Dear Daisy, Heather and Riley,

Daisy, my mother.

Heather, my love.

Riley, my best friend.

This is my letter for the future home, where you will be my neighbours and I will be only a few steps away.

It has been so long for me on earth alone. Things are worse without you around, yet having you here is not recommended as well, for all the suffering I’m through, it’s better without me knowing you have been witnessing.

Is death scary? Painful? Is it like the light shines too bright, your eyes flare, your body evaporates into energy that circles its fire? Is it a black hole that sucks your soul, your stomach throttles, your skull shrinks suppressing into a molecule? Will God forgive me? Will He count my sins, and send me to hell on the level where I earn to burn?

I am wondering if the atheists are right, there is no hell or heaven — good people who suffer die with no recompense. I don’t mean to be demanding for all the goodness I have done, I expect nothing when I die. Eternal happiness sounds as miserable as the hellfire, and if I could be honest, I am addicted to a little bit of pain.

I want to believe in the afterlife, where you are still breathing, thinking about me, visiting me when you miss me. You send me dreams where we hug, and you tell me I will live tomorrow with a stronger heart. You let me carry your energy to face the world again because you also miss being alive, and also wish to revive.

I promise to tell you my biggest achievements in life, my daughter’s name, my friends and their peculiar pets, the smiles I have made in a community of the forgotten children. I know you hate promises, for you have promised to stay and you have left. A blink and you were gone, and I have never overcome. I promise to let you know that your promise has never been broken, I have been carrying you in my mind.

May the fire, the thoughts, the sail that took your life don’t linger around, so you can stop blaming yourself for your own death, as I know you would. It’s not your fault — God just loves you too much.