I’m wandering somewhere, to nowhere.

“Maybe I was better at leaving things than having them.”

I can see some light even though the walls are too high, and just as dull.
I’m listening to something, but I can’t focus well enough to recognize the melody; my thoughts have become louder than my music.

“Maybe I was better at leaving things than having them.”

What is it I’m hearing? Is it the sound of destruction? Chaos, you’d call it. It’s where I find comfort, or used to.
I’m not sure whether I’m alone or not. Maybe someone is wandering with me, lingering around. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just my head again.
I’m wearing boots, I don’t know of which colour or length; I’m too scared to look down.

I can feel things around me now, but I can’t see any; I think I started running too fast.

“Maybe I was better at leaving things than having them.”
I stood still again. I knew it wasn’t the finish line but I chose to put my thoughts aside and step closer to open the gate to where I was supposed to find my inner peace, so I could just lay there with inner-sufficiency. So I could finally stop running to nowhere. So I could escape from the monstrous world I have created for myself where I am the only monster.

I would’ve described the atmosphere around me as calming, or something close, if I hadn’t looked down and noticed the gun in my own hand. I followed all the voices in my head that have failed me before and got me to nothingness.
“Maybe I was better at leaving things than having them.”

Until I had arrived to a place where I couldn’t hear voices that were screaming too loud.

I felt a warmth embracing me, and I thought I should let go of the gun before the voices change their mind; change their tone, come back again. I could just see serenity in front of me, thinking it was my remedy.
I looked down at my hand to watch myself let go. But a thought interrupted me: can you really let go? Pull away? And if you can, how do you do it if the wreckage was caused by something that constantly reminds you that the past was real?

The pounding in my ear frisks along with the thought, leaving the space between my heartbeats inconsequential.

“Maybe I was better at leaving things than having them.”

I froze; something has changed. I couldn’t see the gun. I might have dropped it on my way, unknowingly. And it might have never been there.
But my hands were finally free from a gun.

And this is how I knew that sometimes, taking the decision within yourself is the hardest part because it takes more guts to make it than act upon it. Sometimes, acting upon it easily comes in the way, and stays there.

For once, I embraced the thought differently: Maybe I was better at leaving things than having them.

Maybe I was better at leaving self-loathing than having it. Maybe I was better at leaving the bottled up self-hatred aside. Maybe I was better with nothing eating me up, devouring my remains.

Sometimes we fall in love with our sadness, but it’s beautiful when we choose to let go of it.