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Red is a very attractive color, don't you think? Do you like the color red? The red of roses, of lava, of snow whites lips--- of blood. Everybody does. But if you think that us, students, like the color red well then, think again.
Cards day, Awarding of Honors Ceremony. All are glittering with smiles. Spreading hugs and handshakes of "Congratulations!" Old and young gathered cheerfully, praising accomplishments. While me? My old folks are as real as unicorns and that pot of gold at the end of any rainbow. Nowhere to be found. Perhaps... perhaps my sister caught all their attention again she was always the only star on their stage. The sun that brightens up their sky. Again and again, so alone, so lonely, with nothing but the wind behind me, I step up and face my fear. And as I open my card, my eyes laid on the very color I loathe.
If the color red was music, people would hear love, romance, power and individuality. With a change of its tune, red can also be anger, hate and alarm. But as I gaze at the color, I tremble. Icy beads ran like rivers on my skin for that Godforsaken color, in my family, means many, many more disappointment. The cold shoulder and worse? A trip to the Museum of Knives. Where you can do nothing but appreciate all they have to say about what a failure you are. i couldn't stand for myself as they breathed fire at me saying, "Be more like your sister." "She is a beauty, has the brains, the heart, and is everything that you are not." Oh, that heart shattering comparison will I be able to hear that for the rest of my life?
Standing there, with my head hung low, I accepted all that I was seeing. Absorbed all that I was hearing. And drowned in all that I was feeling. No matter how hard I try, those words, those actions, those---knives, pierced through my heart and soul that even the strongest metal in the world vibranium, couldn't have stopped them.
So I killed myself.
While questioning my entire existence, if I was even worth it, if I was ever enough, if any of what I did even mattered to them.
I killed myself. But not by hanging. Nor by poisoning, or slicing my wrists, or jumping off a tall building, but by surrounding myself with positivity.
I killed myself with so much love and appreciation for my being. Taking my inspirations to heart, I now have learned that only I decide my fate and how I want to be remembered by.
"I am enough. I am so enough. It's unbelievable how enough I am"
Now, the red things that I love the most are the small heart cut outs that my children (students) give to me on my every birthday (teacher's day).
Red is indeed a very attractive color.
Our coach once said that a feature writer and his writing are one. What a writer writes is either his experiences or his perceptions. Topics were then given where we are to choose from as the subject for our article.
Suicide Depression Competition and its Effects my choice was a bright as day then the clock started ticking. Half of it jogged by and my paper was still blank. How I hated that, that unofficial writer's block. Half the sand in the hourglass, I declared war. I pick up my sword and slaughtered my way in. Blood was beginning to shower. I rushed my pace no time to check what came to mind, wrote. What came to mind, I hated. I hated it the feeling from comparison of being compared. Much more when whom they equate you with has not summed up to even a quarter of who you really are. It shocked me. I had handled the actual situation long ago calmly, responsibly, maturely. Though my subconscious begged otherwise.
Epiphany a sudden revelation that was an epiphany until then, I had no idea how significant that situation can be for other people. Little did I know, others had worn my shoes too. And walked on the same road for those shoes to be threadbare. And I believe that you should do the same. When people try to harm you, use their own weapon against them. But not in the way they did, nor in the way they expect. Use it wisely. Like how wise you are kill them with kindness. And that kindness is by killing yourself. For the better. For yourself to be your best.
Might as well kill myself was born during my school's 2016 journalistic writing competition in feature category.
The circumstances were purely fictional.
My parents are fair, just and understanding unlike those in the article, they accept us for who we are and push as to be better but only in ways we are comfortable with.
My siblings and I love each other. And there's no room for envy as our house is already full as it is.