The Funeral of Bondage

My heart is light today, sun-bright. Here I was, drowning in unrest just a moment ago; the days pile it higher and higher, neglect compounds, sometimes my insides twist themselves raw—but I hardly care anymore about any of it.

There's so much I can't bring myself to tell you, held back by some modesty I can't shake. I don't even know what you write, or to whom, or why—but that not-knowing is my peace. All my hurts drift away.

You might think me absurdly foolish. I can't think much these days, and I don't bother trying. I take what feels good and leave the rest. If something dark threatens, I set it aside. I know now—there is no negativity anywhere. Even my grudges have gone. I don't want to put distance between us over anything; I just want to hold on and live.

Let me tell you about my troubles. A lifetime of sacrifice, of swallowing and accepting—I think it's twisted something in me. Since my son was born, they say I've become temperamental, stubborn as a stone. So everyone—my mother, my siblings, my husband—everyone close to me keeps saying I'm bad. To earn their love I have to be good, docile, the picture of a dutiful wife. My husband, his family, all of them together pick me apart.

The thing is, I understand it all now. But I can't take their love anymore. Love that demands you play the dutiful wife—I don't want it. I'm trying to become harder, fiercer, because I've come to despise them. I need to get out, and fast.

Beneath all this lies something deeper still. Some people want me to fail, to suffer—they're laughing at my misery. I don't have the strength to fight them anymore; now my war is with the ones I call my own.

In the end, I'm utterly alone. The child exhausts me; I can't eat properly, can't sleep, can't do anything, my body won't hold. I don't know if anything will ever be right again.

Everything ends in meaninglessness—and yet today's sunset is beautiful. Seeking meaning in an illogical world—it's humanity's most logical madness.

...I read something like this somewhere, and it echoed with my own thoughts. In me, both waiting and faith burn bright. Someone will wait for you, perhaps till death. Has anyone ever given you more than that?

I won't come back. There's no one waiting for me anywhere. I have love for no one. I despise everything. You too. If any feeling for me still lives in you, then perform its funeral rites and be free. Let yourself go.