The initial reaction wasn't pain. It was panic. A million thoughts and emotions, racing in my mind. Past, present, future. Memories. Plans. Everything was suddenly up in the air. Like an internal earthquake or tsunami maybe. I wasn't calm enough to feel the pain, gauge the damage. Immediately, I went into denial. Underplaying the hurt. Telling myself that I was okay and feeling normal... that sending love and forgiveness would be easy. After all, there was love, to begin with. But as days went by... I noticed, I was unable to cry. That's when I realized... I was in emotional shock. And my emotional system had abruptly shut down. That is grief. The damage runs deeper than what can be seen.
This pain runs through my body and ties me to the ground underneath. My veins get emptied, to an unending pit, at the center of the earth. Pale and drained... I stand, in utter shock. Lips parted, by the weight of words entangled, hanging... hooked in my gut. Enough air in my lungs. Enough to keep me afloat. But I'm drowning, under the desert in my throat. Your face... blurred in my memories. Your betrayal... still fresh, oozing from my heart... bleeding. I'm bleeding vacuum, because that's all that remains within me. I had given you all the keys. Not knowing, you... were the thief.
As I stepped into the city, an eerie feeling wrapped my being. It was still noon time, so I brushed off the feeling to be arising due to the obvious haunted aura that spring afternoons carried in this part of the country. I took a cab and let the car window down to taste the air of this new place. But as the vehicle moved through the empty roads of a city that seemed to be haunted more than alive, I just couldn't shake a sinking feeling of dread and uneasiness that made me squirm in my seat. For the first time wide empty roads and highways and flyovers didn't make me feel free and ecstatic. Instead, they invoked in me... a sense of fear and dread. For the first time silence and stillness didn't feel soothing... but threatening. It felt like the driver was a spirit, taking me around a ghost town... through the alleys of a graveyard... a burnt down city... with thick layer of dust settled upon homes and roads and chimneys of factories that seemed to have been closed for decades. The parks were full of prickly plants... no flowers, no fruit bearing trees... quite unusual for this part of the country. All through my drive of about an hour, I didn't find a single person actively participating in life. People were... just lazily dragging their bodies around localities. As if ghosts from the cementery had found their way into the town. Death loomed in the air that I was breathing. It seemed to be a secret small cemetery that had been plucked from the spirit world and placed in the middle of a living country. And I... happened to be a random traveler... who had mistakenly stepped into this haunted land of the dead. My gut screamed... to run away before it was too late. Before I too, would become one of them... a haunted spirit... wandering out of my grave.
What I think of you @whitewings , me and everyone else. ________________________________________
A bird’s eye view.
Writing. Writing is all you do. You’ve grown into a dream, you’ve never dreamt of. You’re a writer. That’s all you are. You don’t try to be better, you just want to be true. You don’t want escape; you see pain, suffering, loneliness, betrayal and you’re comfortable. No hiding, no evading. You don’t see why life isn’t beautiful. You’ve seen guilty sunsets and poetic lies. You’ve walked miles and found wildflowers bloom in the battlefields. You haven’t seen it all, but, you’ve seen enough to be. Just be.
There was a time when you started. When you loved writing for reasons beyond writing. The excitement in metaphors and references. Writing took you to a different world; better people. Or at-least, that’s what you thought. Intrigued. Excited. You were young. You thought this could go on. But could it? Even then, at the back of your mind, there was Reality. Taunting. Scaring.
Slowly, words took to you. It became a habit. Every time you fell for the sky, the stars or the flowers, you would count on words to freeze the time. Trying to hold a fleeting moment. You began collecting them at the first sight. Little did you know, that the second gaze would hit you with a memory. And the third wave would be a poetry. Sometimes paper-boats bring love to your paparazzi. And you smile. You’re grateful. But you know it won’t last. And you’re tired.
You are a witness to how cruel and kind this life can be. But, you won’t tell no stories of adventure or love. You write snippets. Your words inspire stories and poems. You take no credit, nor care to know someone, beyond the writer he/she is. You don’t want to know. You don’t want to judge. Life has already begun happening to everyone. And we are all in the middle of something different.