Diary Of A Mad Man

Is life fair? Honestly, my opinion doesn’t matter. Some would say it’s fair, others would argue otherwise. Some believe life balances everything—happiness, sadness, wealth, poverty. But what about someone who’s never felt real happiness? Is that the fairness of life? Is someone living joyfully because my life wasn’t good enough? Do people grow rich at the expense of others, their wealth built on the suffering of the poor? And the system, the way life just lets it happen—does it even care? I don’t know. I can’t answer any of it. Life’s too complicated, too messy. All I know is, I’ve come to the end of mine. A fate so disturbing, I can barely wrap my mind around it. Taken away by a life I was living, not knowing how much worse my condition had become. I ignored the signs—kept pushing, convinced that I could outlast the storm of stress and depression clouding every corner of my mind. But in the end, where does it all lead? Death. The weight of it all was crushing, suffocating. The constant exhaustion, the hopelessness that never let go. It wasn’t the kind of depression you hear about in stories. It was a slow burn, a quiet storm that destroyed everything in its path. There was no cathartic breakdown, no moment of clarity—just a constant ache in my chest, a dull throb in my head. The world outside became a blur. I didn’t want to get out of bed, didn’t want to face the day, but I did, because I thought I had to. But each day, I felt a little more disconnected, a little more distant from the person I once was. It wasn’t just the mental toll. My body ached, like I’d been carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, and every step was a struggle. I couldn’t sleep. When I did, it wasn’t restful. My mind was always racing—thoughts tangled, swirling in a never-ending spiral. I couldn’t breathe without feeling like I was drowning. Stress piled on stress, until my heart couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t even realize how close I was to the edge. A heart attack? A stroke? Maybe. But in the end, it was Takotsubo cardiomyopathy—the "broken heart syndrome" they call it. The final blow came without warning. I never thought I’d die like this—alone, in the same bed I couldn’t sleep in because of the insomnia. The bed that had become a prison. Now it’s my deathbed. My resting place. How ironic. How fitting. But perhaps, in some strange way, it’s better this way. Anything more, and I would have lost even more than I could imagine. I was already at my wit’s end. This is it. This is as far as I can go. (The room begins to fade. The weight of his thoughts, his body, all of it, dissolves into a strange emptiness.) The silence presses in. It’s not like before, not like the quiet I’ve grown used to. There’s something off about it now, as though the air itself has changed. The heaviness, the suffocating quality of the world, is gone. But in its place, I feel something else—something unfamiliar. My chest doesn’t hurt. My head doesn’t ache. For a moment, I think I’m floating. Is this it? I close my eyes, and then I open them again, but it’s not the same. The room is too still. Too empty. It doesn’t look right. It feels wrong. I blink, trying to focus, but everything seems blurry, distant. My body feels… light. Too light. I try to move my hand, but it doesn’t respond as it should. The familiar weight of my body, the heaviness that had plagued me, is gone. I raise my arm and look at it—It’s smaller. My hand is smaller. My fingers, thinner. My skin looks… different. It’s too strange to comprehend. I sit up, struggling to push myself up against the mattress, but my legs—they’re not the same. The strength isn’t there. Everything feels too… new. I look down at my body, confusion crawling over me. What is this? I try to breathe, slow my heart rate, but panic rises within me. I’ve seen this before. In the mirror, in my reflection, but not like this. Not this small. I glance around the room, searching for some sign, some explanation. The walls are unfamiliar, the faint smell of childhood memories wafting through the air. The faint hum of the clock ticking, the cluttered desk with books and toys scattered about. No, it’s not possible. This is… my room. My childhood room. But I’m not a child anymore. I can’t be. I push myself up from the bed, my legs shaky beneath me, like a child learning to walk for the first time. The floor creaks beneath my feet. This is wrong. This is wrong. I try to steady myself, my breathing shallow, my heart pounding. My hands grip the bedpost for support. The room feels too small, too close, and yet, so achingly familiar. But… Why am I here? A door creaks open. I freeze. The room is silent, save for the sound of my own rapid heartbeat. I glance toward the door, the footsteps that follow. It’s not possible. It can’t be. But then I hear a voice—soft, distant, yet unmistakably familiar. “Are you alright, sweetie?” I don’t answer.