Empty

I came back to an empty home, but at least they left the light on for me. There's always no place to park around my house on weekends, what with my socialite wannabe neighbours whose guests jam their cars on any semblance of a kerb along my road. And I'm not even invited to their parties.

A house still and dark is never a good thing to come home to. I switch on some lights, turn on the TV and check to see if there's any leftovers in the fridge. There isn't. Guess I'll go hungry. I wade groggily to my bed, stripped down to my shorts and settled down to sleep. It was 7.30pm.

The moment I closed my eyes, my mind spun like a broken video projector, flashing images in random sequence of my day just ended. I succumbed to a fitful slumber of the kind only fatigue can produce.

Some noise wakes me up. I check the time. Only 8.15pm. I wanted to get up but the heavy feeling in my chest makes even sitting up a feat. But I've gotten used to it by now. The days I stay home, I confront the demons. My very own. Which may explain my increase in drinking of late.

There's a match on at 9pm but I wasn't in the least interested right now. I walk to the kitchen to see if I was in the right frame of mind to whip up dinner for myself. I wasn't. I walked back to the living room and sat down staring mindlessly at the blaring TV. I wondered many things but never to any conclusion.

I switch off the TV and the deathly silence descends once more. I can feel my chest heaving. My arms feel like they're made of iron. My feet seem to be mired in mud. I stare blankly at nothing in particular for the longest time, quietly surrendering to the truth I tried to deny. I am grappling with depression.

If a lotus may bloom from the most defiled of soil, I prefer the exuberant wildflowers in the fields. If there is beauty to be found in the tormented soul, I would rather the corruption from that of the flesh.