Last night, my mother and I rode this ship for Cebu and when we were already near our destination, around 2 am today, suddenly a part of the ship was on fire. My primal instincts told me to get up and save myself. But when I calmed down, I was thinking, “What is there to be afraid of?” Was I wicked to think that I wanted the ship to sink? Was I wicked for wanting all of us passengers to jump out of the boat, trying to save ourselves? Alas, lachesism. At that very moment, I thought, “Ah, death, my friend, we’ll be meeting soon.” But after a while, the captain announced that the fire had already been controlled and that there was no need to panic. I feel guilty for actually feeling disappointed. Disappointed that I didn’t get to see the disaster that it could have been. And I stood there, looking at the beautiful full moon, saying, “Alas, death, my friend whom I have longed to meet, you have not come for me today. Life still wants to keep me. Soon, maybe, we’ll meet.”
I guess, this is what depression has done to me. Death has become my friend, now.