Against the tide, life-averted

  
 I no longer want to live.
 Why not?
 I don't know. But this I know — I don't.
  
 I live alone. I like it.
 I keep the room dark. Lie down on the bed. Just like that.
 I keep my eyes closed for hours on end. I think of those days,
 the days that have passed, the days that bring no good in thinking of them.
 Still, I like doing this.
 Sometimes I go stand by the window. Cast my gaze outside.
 Why, I don't know. I only know I like doing this.
 This too I know — I don't like being alive.
  
 Some insects slip into the room through the window.
 I don't stop them. When they come in, I don't chase them away.
 There's no distance between them. They stay together.
 I like seeing their closeness.
 I like letting them stay in the room.
 It's only living that I don't like.
  
 A few days ago, a middle-aged cockroach
 took over the space under my bed, along with its family.
 Today I saw two baby cockroaches emerge from under the bed
 playing on the carpet. They're siblings, I think.
 I gently nudged them back toward the room.
 The mother cockroach is sleeping — the babies snuck out in this moment.
 They're forbidden to come before my eyes. They don't know this.
 There's cockroach poison in the room.
 Let it be. There are many other things in the room too.
 I like watching them, I just don't like being alive.
  
 A little while ago a grasshopper entered the room.
 It raced around frantically, terrified. I got up from lying down,
 quickly switched off the fan. But it was too late.
 The grasshopper, struck by the blade, fell on the table and writhed.
 I ran over. Why I went, I don't know.
 Before I could reach it, it was gone.
 Thinking of its family, I'm crying.
 Why am I crying? I like this crying.
 It's only staying alive that I don't like.
  
 On my desk, atop a pile of books, sits a spider. Pregnant.
 A large egg is lodged in her belly. They become mothers only once in life.
 The children in her womb will sink their first hungry bite into her very belly.
 They'll keep eating like this
 until every bit of flesh and bone in her body is consumed.
 To keep her children alive, the mother will offer herself entirely.
 Can't such a noble mother be saved?
 What if I cook for them?
 Will the baby spiders eat my cooking? Will they spare their mother?
 Thinking these thoughts, tears come to my eyes.
 I like these tears too, but
 the thought of being alive feels unbearable.
  
 Now I have so much work.
 I'm wondering if the two babies who crossed the border made it safely home.
 I'm thinking of delivering news of the grasshopper's death to its family.
 I'm thinking of cooking for the spider's unborn children.
 My duties have multiplied. In an instant! Without my asking!
 Since these responsibilities can't be shifted to anyone else's shoulders,
 I suddenly want to live!
  
 I am alive. I will live a few more days.
 If you stay alive, you can save others, and if you can save, you can live a little longer.
 I like holding this unbreakable cycle within me.
 How strange — why did I never feel this joy before!