Difficult it is to go through the day where everything and everyone is a challenge and battle. They demand to be heard and answered. The tears of yesterday still lingers on the lines of your face and the remains hides behind your lids temporarily, ever ready to fall. The word of thanks no longer leaves an imprint. And the weight on your shoulders have left you on the floor. 

The same blank notification is silent and neglecting. It resounds the fact that you are forgotten and one sided all along. 

Why do you feel insignificant, standing facing the wind alone.

Often damages made are by unthought words being said. 

Saying "sorry" merely sends the message to the mind. 

But the heart refuses to listen and clutches on the gapping knife pierced hole with feeble attempt to stop the bleeding and suffocating feeling of hurt. 

It is less rationale and much more fragile than the mind. 

To repair or soothe the heart means attempting to restore that level of trust again, strong enough to withstand another blow most often by you. 

"There is nothing so black as the inferno of the human mind." 

I had been thinking about permanent gifts or things that would last. Not forever but at least maybe longer than I would exist. 

The answer came and I stumbled answering myself. 

It is immaterial. 

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Ferris Bueller, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)

“Be loved, be admired, be necessary; be somebody.”

Naively, you always hoped for support and encouragement from your loved ones; even if it does not sound like it would work out or even if it does not make sense to them. It could be the choice of faculty, the type of job you are applying for, even the funky hair colour you picked, quitting your current stable job or picking up a new side hobby. You just wanted to feel that your courage meant something or it is real and that only you can make it happen. You felt invincible coming up with that decision which you definitely did not make lightly. 

So you hoped. 

And you got stabbed by hope. 

And you were left bleeding out without hope. 

Helpless really seeing her frail and just lying there, looking small and sunken in the giant bed. You don't remember how did she get so old so quick. For that moment when the bed gets pushed into the ward there is a silence that fills the space and you are just standing there taking it all in as everyone was making way. Mortality. 

We don't live forever. And this tiredness of the flesh is temporary. 

This is another kind of prison. A self induced one. You are in it with strangers. 

"If I created the constellations and the earth, the galaxy, the clouds, measured the earths foundation...count the clouds and send the lightning bolts on their way.. If I can do all this... What is your worries or troubles or issues that I cannot do for you."

An aggrieved soul makes the body run longer. It produces an anaesthetised effect.

There will be days like today. Where you would feel it all raw and intense. You become so disgustingly delicate, fragile and sensitive. Because your darkness or the fact that you shoved and gave everything the benefit of the doubt, that the doubt decided to cheat and manipulate you to feel the immense sense of loss; making you it's fool. And that becomes the haunting truth of today. It is crystal clear and you are unable to let it go; not today. It demands to be heard, to be felt. 

It grips you like a knife going through your body and you hold on to the person's hand who had just knifed you. One hand clutching the bleeding gap in your body, one hand on the murderer. Your blood pours out smudging the clean marble floors and it soaks the rest of your shirt. The colour red is too red and the warmness of it too warm. 

You look up.

You. 

What have you done. 

"In love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."

I used to hold a fabric to rule the world. It was comfort, home and sleep. Everywhere I went it went and I was never alone. Familiar and safe. But I let it go. To attain what the world calls it; maturity. Fully developed in body or mind. We were not ready then. On whose benchmark of maturity were we gauged on? 

The wrong thing for the right reasons. 

Today I am aware that she is back. The itch to write, the ache for a cigarette, the silent intentions. 

Who could know what time would show. 

Who could know. 

Louder than anything we ever mention. 

You wish they were dead. You wished they were dead. It would had been easier. All this too seems familiar. The same demands. We need to claw our way out of here, right now. Let us pack and go. Hop on the next flight out. 

Naive. Little wishes to get by. 

Sometimes the music is not loud enough to calm dreamed violence. The shake and shatter of a body. 

Scary isn't it. 

Some form of sadness takes you to places. Alone. 

Rare moments like these. That I am ecstatic. Knowing the impending finality of life is in death has an ultimatum and comforting release. 

Even if it was one drawer left as a weak attempt to own just one thing. Even that little heaven is taken. 

Let it go.