The Angel's Bleeding Rag Doll

"That's the thing about suicide. Try as you might to remember how a person lived his life, you always end up thinking about how he ended it."

~Anderson Cooper 

When did we decide that Empathy was uncool?

That Care meant Clingy, and clingy was annoying,

and Concern, joblessness?

Why did, 'I'm busy' become cooler than, 'I'm here for you.'?

When did we become scavengers -picking up on other people's vulnerabilities and miseries and pain, picking up all those dirty, rotten, unwanted parts of peoples' lives they'd rather discard - for our tea time gossip?

When did 'talking about' become more acceptable than 'actually talking to'?

Asking for help is the one of the bravest things someone can do-

to admit that you're broken and in need of fixing and that you need help because you can't save yourself from the demons in your head but you still want to survive, damnit! 

A part of you begs for the pain to stop, for the sweet embrace of death to be that one final shot to kill the pain, and another part, the part that still has it's ancient, ancestral, warrior, fighter, survivor instincts, wants to battle on. The battlefield of the mind is an exhausting place to be, and half your troops are fighting against their will. 

When did this turbulent, bloodless gore become pathetic, unacceptable and attention seeking?

A bleeding accident victim, lying on the road like a rag doll screaming in pain for help isn't what you'd call attention seeking, would you?

Then how come someone who's body is at war with their own mind, with the former fighting to survive and the latter dreaming of sweet demise - a theatrical performance? 

The truth you lack sight of, is still the truth,

The pain you cannot see does exist, and it still inflict its victims, engulfs and swallows them whole, 
to this fallen Angel of pain, it doesn't matter if the crime has a witness or not. 

This Angel gets to everyone at his own untainted pace. 

Your apathy only speeds up the process. 

And once the victim is captured, taken under the dark, heavy, unforgiving wings of this fallen Angel, to be crushed and lost and disintegrated into dust forever, 

You hope its done. 

You hope that The Angel will fly away, return to where ever it came from. 

You couldn't save her, you underestimated her pain, you weren't enough, 

but now she's gone and you're still here and you hope she's taken this pain away with her as she leaves, 

Her final goodbye present to you, perhaps?

And all you do is hope and pray that she's no more in pain. 

But this Angel, this wretched Angel of pain, is a fallen one.  Cast out of heaven for his rebellion, he has no where to go to and all the time to stay. 

He's still around. 

He's slowly starting to creep on to you. 

A cold shiver runs down your spine, a feeling of dread fills you up, 

as you realize,

It's all yours, 

It's here to stay, 

This angelic outcast 

fondly spoken of as, 

The Pain of Regret. 

 ~~~

Hey, Ruchika? I don't think I'm ever going to stop missing you.