I started losing myself at gradeschool. I don't know when it started, or how, or why. It isn't something that suddenly creep up on me, or punched me in the face, or surprised me in any way. It has always been there. Lingering, slowly and gradually. On the edges, on the sides, on the lines. Until it reached me. It was like waves. I saw it coming from the distance, I saw it coming my way. I watched it until it touched my feet.

At that time, I still don't know what I'm watching. Or what I was losing. At that time, I welcomed what has now killed me.

Life continued. I continued to perfect my tests, to ace my grades, to top my classes. I keep reading books, I keep dancing, I keep writing. Until a new obsession developed.

The thing is, I have always been that odd kid. Who's too curious to be healthy, too weird to stay still, too cautious to live freely. At an early age, I have always questioned life. I seek, and find, and dig for what I want to know. That what was led me to understand. As early as 5th grade, I already know how the world isn't a fairytale, but it is a crappy movie. Where the world is nothing but a playground of children dreaming of unicorns, of teenagers finding their story, of adults pretending to memorize the script. It is full of naiveness, of play safe, and pretentious actions. The world isn't made of rainbows and vibrant colors. It is a combinations of reds and blacks and whites. I know, that the little me would find it hard to survive in this ty world.

Maybe that's why it happened. I learned how to control my life through thinking. Practicality over empathy. Rationality over sensitivity. Logic over feelings. I pushed down whatever feelings I have to go through until I no longer feel anything.

At 6th grade, I started to hurt myself. At that time, I wasn't aware that it was a form of suicide. Of depression. Of self hatred. All I know is that I can't feel anything. But when I do it, I feel the rush of relief. In my skin, in my blood, in my mind. It was like europhia. Everytime the blade, the glass, the scissor, the ing ballpen would cut through my skin, I can breathe. I can still say that I am a human. A person. I can still hurt. I count them at night, hide them in the day. It continued. And worsen as days goes to weeks, weeks became months, and months turned to years. As I learned how to hurt myself, I learned how to hurt other people. With every word and action I do to hurt them, another cut becomes visible in my body. A mark. A reminder. Of how I became a monster.

When I turned twelve, what was left of me alive, I killed. The marks forgotten, but the scars stayed. Even though it isn't visible. I stopped hurting myself, and hurting people. Because it has became old news. It was nothing to me. The pain, the guilt, the burden. It was all nothing. I used to destroy people so I could feel. But now, no matter how many people I make miserable. It means nothing to me. I can feel nothing. Not the wounds in my skin, not the blood searing out of it, or the coldness of the blade I use.

When high school ended, my life ended too. But I am still there. Breathing, studying, looking. I'm like a puppet. Does what is said, move when pulled by the strings. I stopped giving efforts awhile ago. I stopped living. I stopped being a human.

And now, I am just waiting. For the end. For me to end. When I can finally be free, from the shell I made. From the walls I built. Because I can no longer be free until my prison called body is dead.