Pain

147.

“My father didn’t cry, but he said that seeing me on the floor like that was the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to him. Then he described how he’d made these tourniquets using some torn-up sheets from my bed and held me until the paramedics got there. He said he kept telling me how much he loved me, over and over, in case hearing it helped me stay alive.”

— Michael Thomas Ford’s Suicide Notes (p67)

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145.

They refer to it as the call of the void.

It is the feeling that slips in while standing at the edge of a cliff, or driving a car. There goes the mind that wonders, what if this body stumbles over a loose root, what happens if the foot brake is faulty in its functioning. What if one day, standing by the tarmac pavement, there is a crazed vehicle steering dangerous and there is no want to move aside.

There is no desire to let go of life itself, yet the hand is not clutched tight to save it as well. The emptiness that the darkness of nothing tries to fill. Continue running, this mind.

What if the glass walkway shatters at the act of the maniac. How long will one fall?

Hold a knife innocent chopping the onions, when it could be elsewhere far more sinister.

So many ways to go, but only one determines the end.

Everyone bleeds in red.

140.

El Roi; the God who sees me.

Here when breath finds itself lost in a crowd, when feet melt into water and fall sideways. Watching these hands fail to grip the balloons of dreams and have them popping in the intensified air. This yarn of thought scrambled, disconsolate, eventually frayed. Crease all the papers into attempted perfect folds, run the life that never is.

Six feet under in the space I’m supposed to call home.

Flower on the wall, grown strange and peculiar. Remember to stand tall, raise the hand of one’s heart, even when it quivers interminably. Speak in words that don’t exist, for more so is none important. The dark and the shadows find shape in gentle light. The hand outstretched that never intrudes the bubble.

I know just the special little something for you, He whispers lovingly.

Look up and know.

El Roi; the God who sees me.

139.

Talk to me about your monster. Does it like to come out to play at night, or claw into your back when you’re not looking? Some monsters, they know how to smile.

Not everyone learns to stop looking for the monster under their bed. I promise not to laugh, if you are one of them. Some will live in the crevices of our souls for always. Face the mirror, who do you see.

Monsters. Why do I keep going on about them? I do, for they are tangible creatures that lurk in the cracks of one’s mind. Here’s a read that realises that.

Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls is a read that has the ability to speak to the child in each of us. This I promise. It appears as a fancy children’s book, a piece of fiction inspired by Siobhan Dowd, but no. It is much more.

Depending on one’s definition, it can be considered as a horror story as reality has its many terrifying revelations. A monster in the night, a particular yew tree, uproots itself and meets Conor O’Malley. Initially frightened, he calms down upon recognising that it is not the same monster in his dreams.

This monster, the one that came walking at 12:07 will tell important stories, ones that will reveal the truth within the boy’s heart. Completed with beautiful illustrations, it is a written work that will take your heart away. It takes mine, a total surrender. I cannot say more lest I ruin it for the rest of you.

Talk to me about your monster. How tall does it stand, does it have wings or does it look like you and me. By the end of this read, you might want a monster to come calling for you.

134.

An old piece demanding attention. I’ve given in.

An owlish stare belonged to a brunette standing by the tree. She was gazing at some who were holding their respective lanterns. Then, as if one had uttered a miserable excuse of a joke, they laughed uncontrollably before resuming their journey. Certainly they were going for the lantern festival. The frosh in the picturesque park eventually allowed a sigh to articulate.

Admittedly, she knew that if she wanted to go, she just would. The student wasn’t too particular when it pertained to company, and solitude would have been her first choice. Nevertheless, it would be evident for all to see that she wasn’t going to move. A part of her perpetually wondered as to why, oh why, that she continued being stubbornly stuck in the pages of yesterday and tomorrow simultaneously. It was ridiculous and repetitive to recognise that the past, albeit important, had its limits when one considered the present timeline. And the future was definitely a matter so terribly delicate, comparable to a fragile framework collapsing at the whim of a wind’s whisper. Preposterous. Stuck in her thoughts, then and there did a familiar explosion resound. The brunette looked toward the horizon and her eyes widened in wonderment.

Fireworks.

Works of fire.

How horrible that a childish play of words threatened a diminutive smile to surface. Just so horrible, because it was probable that this was another reason why she decided against attending. She often thought that inanimate things could represent a human’s want or need, example being a blanket picturing warmth.

So did fireworks. They were more than a rich person’s way of finding visual entertainment. It was definitely a bearer of definitions larger than the space they occupied in the night sky. In her eyes, they were symbols of interminable warmth and renewal, perhaps even resembling a burst of emotion. An incandescent flame that burned passionately, in ardent adoration and everything like that. Sappiness was not the issue at hand. The real one was this.

Maybe she had been afraid that if she had gone there, being under those lucent lights and burst of gleaming sparks, it would make the brunette find a part of herself that she never wanted to discover. A passion she would rather live without. Maybe there was the possibility that if there was a someone by her side, the adrenaline rush embedded within would play tricks on her mind, causing her to feel and think of things she rendered unnecessary.

Then she laughed, a tinkling chime that sounded musical until a seemingly choked voice marred the expression. The forming of a supposedly easy laugh at absurdity had ended with sadness. Maybe it was both, for the girl herself had no longer known if it had been laughter or tears after all. Nevertheless, whatever it had been, the vibrant explosion of colours were capable of inducing distraction, even if it was only finite in value. Deep down, she knew that it was so likely that she was shortchanging her own self for no appropriate reason.

This destructive display of artwork — had it always been this pretty?

129.

Why do people speak in the midst of a breaking?

Waiting for the boom of fireworks, the roar of a thunderclap

By the bedside of possible death, a wave of congratulations

 

Maybe this is it:

That humans have a softness for honesty

To see truth leave one’s trembling lips

To speak the unsayable because that makes it so incredible

 

Yet we fear consequence:

The rejection, the disgust, the ardent whispers turned into despicable shouting

 

We forget that consequence can also have a wellspring of affection:

The leaning of heads, an iron-grip hug, the removing of a dried leaf from one’s hair

 

We are animated dust kicking up a storm

Leaving sunshine and rain wherever we go

Footprints in the sand eventually swallowed by the mighty ocean

In spite of it all we aspire to be more than just this

 

We climb mountains, we search for new horizons

Finding for a place or someone reminding us to simply be

A map lost, and no place to return to

 

Yet one day, there will be a time when you will watch the sunrise reflected in their quiet eyes

Sleepy yawns gently tugging at the consciousness before a dangerous falling in

And when they ask why you have kept your eyes on them this is what you will say:

 

Once upon a time when no one knew

You defied the odds and became the neglected miracle in the dark

In a world filled with incalculable possibilities we are both here

I thank my God a thousand times for this incomparable moment

 

Blush they will, or turn away

Yet the sly sneak peek will show your shadow melting into theirs

This confession coming clear in spite of your speaking in the midst of a seashore breaking

 

Pick up a seashell, more than one

Build small emblems of devotion with driftwood and hard stones

Let them know, let them know, that even as you are playfully carving names in the ground

That their diminutive smile is a compass, mirthful laughter its tracks

A sign that there might be a home to go to

 

There is so much in a glance

Even as it lies wide open or a furtive sneak

There is so much more