HOW TO KILL

To survive, I had to stay alive.
Which meant I could not cry.
Which meant I could not remember.
Which meant I could not die.
Because dying is remembering out loud.


  
How to kill
  
To survive I had to stay alive. For a long time. Where life was constantly under
threat I had to detach from it to stay alert — alive, and maybe just-maybe not
forget what it meant.
First I had hope — and it would kill me. There was no chance to survive while
feeling each hit.
So many build walls within them to protect what still is. But I knew that the
game against death was a very long-term one — called life. Becoming dependent
on walls, becoming numb would make me isolated from the real pain — but pain
could wait, and it would wait-for long, stay strong -even stronger since I avoided
it longer. Any weakness would stay an open wound and break me in any first
possible way.
While forgetting it — the more assured I felt — I would become more exposed to
it.
And it would come back.
I needed to let go, not listen to the screams in pain, look through the eyes full of
tears — or lose myself. Lose I would anyway— no one could stay cold while the
whole country was dissolving in fear. If it wasn’t fear itself then it was that which
it broke in the eyes of the others, just watching them — adults turning into
paralyzed children. Not because they somehow preserved their innocence, but
because they awoke to a world that was as new to them, as to a child.
Every step, word, or person met could mean the end — thinking “before me, be it
them!” Whatever one loved in life now became a threat, every loved one
became another me. My fear would be silenced by images of their crying,
helplessness and pain — now I felt it in and outside of me.
One could ignore some thoughts and focus on what had to be done, but it was
impossible to not hear their crying, sometimes even their thoughts could be
heard — a silence pierced by wandering eyes, not knowing what to look for, often
stopping and staring into nothing —forgetting to look even once a thought
overtook. These thoughts, so strong fear would soak into them, then paralyze
me and slowly dissolve me.
I had to confront it and adapt, now — never avoid it and let it through me as fast
as possible. Feel it as painful as I could until it no longer could grow — so my
hope.
First I had to kill hope.
Does it die last?
Who cares. I killed the hoper.
I assumed the worst possible, always and forever.
I would fight for each second.
I would learn to let go of life to stay alive.
I made peace with pain by letting it live inside me.
I let it take the room that hope had once occupied.
No illusions.
No bargaining. Only breath and what remains.
People speak of healing like it's a triumph. But healing is also forgetting. And
forgetting is betrayal. I did not want to heal —
I wanted to remember how not to die.
To survive, I became my own executioner.
I killed what made me flinch.
I buried softness in layers of knowing.
I trained myself not to wait for rescue. Not even from myself. And still, some
nights, I wake with a mouth full of ash and the taste of a word I almost said.
A feeling I didn’t dare keep.
A version of myself that still believes.
But that one— dead,
I let go of long ago, and he—
he is,
he does,
not know.
Have you ever held your breath?
As long as possible? How long did it take?
Before giving up: Did you reach what was possible?
Did you reach what “was possible”, in a point — at the same time — you reach
what “is impossible” — did that point break time?






Make it go backwards — torn by the impossible?
How else can all possible be reached to a point where they dissolve — even that
point vanishes— overwritten by an “impossible” that yet then as “is impossible”
collides into the point where we break?
“possible is impossible”— imagine this as reality and the spaces in between
maybe as time. The “is” in between is a point —reality — all that is, and
separating the impossible from ever becoming reality.
In theory.
A possible reaching its own end — always in the now — maybe reaching the very
absolute of itself, everything possible becomes All possible reaching being,
reaching being all possible, leave nothing to become— everything already is —
that point, paradoxically does:
Receive all possible to become— be, in the is—Be all possible that can become —
and be them in the Is— be — reality— the “is” of All, yet by that also Not-be, or
vanish, because the “possible” “being/is” and “impossible” become
one,
are
one
and vanish into not-
one
by vanishing into
one, not being not-
one anymore, becoming
one, being one — until even being
one only is
being or one, colliding into that
one point— vanishing them after becoming it.
How and who can ever reach the possible if we speak of it as something that can
be reached when there are points that — when reached are not reached, vanish
— we could say the impossible becomes possible, vanishing that what is — even
time — setting it back to a point where the “that which was possible (past)” and
then in a point “was” (present) “is possible” (present and all that is) then “was,
being” (past suddenly took over that which was now to become and be “a
possible was” in “is” to vanish into “was, possible (past)”. Any new possible
inverses into becoming the “impossible” because nothing can be reached or be
anymore. While the once “impossible” collides into the being and vanishes it
into “impossible” because being becomes none or not-being once there is
nothing that can become or become to — all already is — dissolving possible and
being and impossible — by merging them — all switching positions: becoming
becomes
vanishing, being
becomes not-being,
possible becomes impossible,
impossible becomes possible… That which was
being, becomes
That which
was being
was, to That which
was being to was being,
and That which was being to
was being was… Time
moves, at some points
reaching something becomes
losing it
or
fracturing
reacher into a
new past —
something dies
in us
that we cannot
possibly
carry on
when we reach the borders of
the
possible.
The possible
has an impossible
price that it and all reaching
it pay.
It becomes
possible to reach it and
impossible to reach it
possibly as one
point vanishes — and
one point becomes — for
one moment
in time —
time
vanishes
—


all
is
one
in All
is
none
by none
is none without
time


—
and that
moment arises,
is born into existence
again, piercing out of “nothing”
in itself’s
“all or one” into
being
nothing
that separates “nothing” from “all” and creating
time, pushing
the very moment into
the next, like there is still
dual nothing and one but also in that
point
a memory — ultimates — existing
and
not existing
anymore to make
being only in context to
or from
not-being.
Awareness of being means becoming, as vanishing into
none pushes becoming into
one that pushes
vanishing into
none becoming
being
notnone,
splitting them
in-to be-in-g.






That is not dying.
That is just the body realizing that it COULD die.
Dying itself?
I do not know.
But imagine a pain — even stronger than the need to breathe.
A force, pain fails to describe.


War is nothing.Death 
sweet salvation.

What can that be?


It can not!
It can not be.
Unspeakable.


I can tell you about the war in Bosnia; my childhood — about flight, loss, and
what it means to cry. But, no, one, no one should ever know what I felt for my
father — while choking on my own tears. No one could, ever - know what it
means, what I cried to my mother — when the need to breathe vanished.
I will never know.
Because that person died.
It was the last day of a childhood.
Only then have I ever really cried.
I
could love without breath — but
I could not
breathe without
love.