The Door Girl, Part 1

There are a million avenues from which people choose to commit suicide. They can tie a noose around a beam. They can overdose on pills. Or they can violate their conscience to an extent that the throat of their soul will be slit wide open.

In the latter case, one has a physical body to perform necessary functions: eating, walking, sleeping (intermittently), feigning life. But the spirit is dead; the individual exists as a hollow shell. And there is no greater sadness than the shell of a human being walking around.
Suicide of the soul: the words "living hell" made palpable.

But this doesn't only happen with the sad individuals who live within the margins of functional society. It happens to your mother, dentist and even to you.

Do you have a pain that sears your heart both day and night? Have you endured morning after morning of burying your head under your blanket in order to defy the sun's proclamation that a new day has begun?

You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I will tell you my own story, simply because I am exhausted by its incessant nagging.

The words nip at my heels begging for attention, like a dog hounding his master for a bone. They won't allow my eyes to rest even after the moon is glowing high. They have no shame about intruding on every last minute of my day, demanding without apology that the words be given life. I have tried to silence them, but they are relentless. The only way the words will stop their bludgeoning is for me to bleed them on to paper.