The Last Time I Committed Suicide

To be a writer is to wear the cloak of an outsider — always watching, never fully belonging, cursed to find solace only in the words that no one else sees.

They ask me today, “When was the last time I committed suicide?” I chuckle at the futile question.

The breath of the morning air, the aroma of early breakfast, the cracks in the pavement on my way to the office — all feel strangely foreign to me. There was a time when I moved and swayed without thought, when the world carried a little lightness, decisions made as effortlessly as breathing. But now, everything feels distant, as though I have stepped into a life that is no longer my own. I’ve wandered into a chapter I wasn’t meant to read, a place where the walls look the same but the air hums with something unfamiliar.

Nothing has changed in the world, and yet, everything feels misplaced like a home I once knew but can no longer return to. Perhaps I have it too, the curse of being a writer, living in a world of endless thoughts, searching for words to make others understand only what I can feel, standing just above the threat of constant loneliness, an anxiety that seems inescapable, insufferable, never treatable, but always lurking in the background, whispering doubts in my soul. I am merely a man that feels like a stranger in my own skin, seeking a connection that feels just out of reach, forever searching for the right kind of words that will somehow make sense of the chaos surging within.