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  • Maddening

    ( unedited)

    His wretchedness kept drawing from me silent tears and so every other night I gifted myself a few tearful minutes before sinking into repose. Well, no sooner had I wiped the last bead of tear on my cheek than somebody else’s whimpers followed. Theirs began slowly, then vehemently rung in my ears like a death knell; becoming more distinct and oppressive. From the sound of them, I recognized to whom they were coming from. Those were her sobs cutting through the midnight silence unrestrained and each time they did; a sense of mortal agony engulfed me.

    ***

    For months I watched her fall into deep despondency and melancholia. She could not foresee what was going to become of us and even if she did, she stubbornly chose to remain quiet; atleast, so I thought. Thus, she resolved to stay clammed up because she had imbibed from him something of his nature making all of us to habituate ourselves with new roles and unwonted tasks.

    Such acts made me wonder what kind of practical considerations made her stay, that she would just bear firmly his irrational violence. Neither could I bring myself to comprehend her doctrine of endurance nor comprehend the forbearance she expressed on her chastiser. To me she was slowly drifting and before I knew it, she became alien and now I was forced to witness a phase of our lives closing insidiously as a new one was being opened.

    What happened is that : there were new household rules; No animal product and meat to be consumed, one wash per week, strictly two rounds to the toilet. School was replaced with studying the Bible for long hours. No visitors/phonecalls hence we were cut off from the rest of the world. All our clothes were given to charity thus we had to dress in black tunics. We were to eat only vegan food :must be homecooked with organic ingredients; that means no salt, no flavors and the food was to be given in little portions twice a day.

    And with the latter we grew thin and emaciated; our skinny frame looking utterly ridiculous in our black robes. To confirm our deplorable state, I had previously witnessed my younger sister drop dead before my sight; to which I suppose it was due to malnourishment and I knew it would not be long before I followed suit. Nonetheless, at the time that happened, he insisted it was her fate and so we were not allowed to grieve on account that death was promoting her to glory and this became one harrowing experience that continued to disturb my sanity in the most unflinching, eerie and guttural manner.

    From then on, every morsel of flesh in my body shrank at his sight. Every fibre of my body feared him. He inspired a bewildered terror in me. I dared to commit no fault but he still found impudence on my actions; a reason to flog me on a daily. And even with the lashes he gave, she still chose to stay silent. Even when I got molested every other night, she still condoned the proceedings whilst my only plea had been to seek her protection.

    However, each time I sorted our her eyes, to see her through, I saw her ache with helplessness, remorse and regret. Perhaps, the fault lay not in herself. Perhaps, it’s her soul disapproval that kept her mute. Hence, silence acted against her will. But between the physical tortures inflicted on me by him and her quietness, I cannot tell which of the two grieved me the most. For we were subdued. We were slaves to a human god. A maniac. Thus, home was no longer home: home had transmogrified into something monstrous.

    ***

    So that when the whimpers kept growing more intense, I imagine she has to take another dosage. Well, hospital was prohibited and so she survived on concoctions he gave her. At first I agonised with the idea of the possibility that they may not work but in her, I saw a tinge of normalcy. Thus, in her distress it behooved me to go to her. Her room was in the furthest corridor and even in the darkness, I managed to trace it. So quietly I walked because I dreaded being found out by him.

    The door to her room was slightly ajar and silently I squeezed myself in. There she was laying frail on a mat :beside her a candle lit so dimly. I stared as she wasted away. Indeed, she was sick just like I was. Both of us were; mentally, physically, spiritually but unlike me: she was suffering the extremes of the symptoms. Her skin was patchy and pale and I thought she is anaemic. She was coughing and I thought she finally caught a cold. Her body was heating up and I thought she is running a fever.

    Watching, I suppose she was sleeping but presently she called to me in a feeble voice bidding me to come close. I moved towards her. I knelt besides her, I lifted her upper torso slightly in a sitting position so that her head rested on my lap. She tried speaking but her voice grew fainter as she spoke. However, the little I heard, made a whirl in my mind. “Grieve not for me but thyself for today my pain will cease and I shall rest…”

    As I struggled with the thoughts of these words, she too became exhausted by her effort and ponderously sank into silence. Then I reached for the bottle which he always kept on her side. As I opened it, raising it close to her mouth in order to feed her: I involuntarily shook and split half of the content. Unbeknownst to me is that this act was a premonition of something obscure soon to happen. Whilst still holding the bottle, I slowly made her sip the remnants in one gulp. Seconds afterwards I could feel her feeble hands press on mine.

    At the same time within me, a weird sensation was coursing through me. Such that, if I was to bestow an expression of what I was feeling, then words would not be able to act as a conduit for it. Then promptly in that minuteness, she began to convulse as a white foam formed in her mouth. Moments later, her eyes shut completely. And as I beheld the sight of this scene that momentarily passed before me; a real insanity possessed me ; for mine had now become a life full of horrors and with this straw; I had truly reached their acme.

    For in that moment all my voluntary thoughts became lost and with that I imagined I was being hurried away by hallucinations, but no; the reality of what I had just done, overtly dawned on me with pangs of sorrow and guilt and by their sting, I let out a deafening yell because;

    I killed her…I just killed my mother…”

    And all suddenly I heard voices. People were speaking with hollow sounds and as it is, I felt as though my feet and hands were being held down: agitation engulfed me and for a moment, all predominating sense of terror confused my faculties as a prick went inside my elbow…

    ©️Sifa

    Click here to read Maddening Part (2)

    https://sifaremmy.wordpress.com/2022/11/06/maddening-2/

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  • Shortlived

    (Revised)

    It was at the park where I sat with my feelings on one of those evenings, when the cause of my blues was not something new anywhere around a solution yet. I wanted to depart for any places at all that was not this place. I wanted to be free from this union. Whilst I am not trying to be cynical about by marriage, there is a possibility that does not escape me. However,  it would be a great disappointment to have it confirmed and that is I had long missed the thrill of the new. Maybe not, but I was outrightly convinced that the sense of obligation towards this lost interest was crushing on me making me sink beneath it. And as I  kept on drifting in and out of these thoughts, he sat next to me. He sat next to me, so close enough that I could hear him breathe and feel his weight on the bench both of us witnessing the unsteady rhythm of our heartbeats.

    Nonetheless, I did not protest about him infringing my personal space and so I just let him in. We sat in silence each engulfed in their own thoughts. But I knew both of us were there for the same reason. Both of us were searching for a piece of home, or a piece of ourselves. Then a long hush fell over us  and for a moment I felt everything would be slightly better if he said something. Luckily enough he slowly struck up a conversation which eased the absurdity of the moment. At first, I feigned disinterest but was taken a back by how he displayed vast knowledge on numerous topics he spoke on. I listened in intently and before I realized it, he had already swept me off my feet, all my senses captivated and now I was fine completely engaged in the discourse.

    There, we spent a full hour together and I felt as though my few inner sorrows were being alleviated throughout the banter. However, at the time of his departure I realized I did not know any more about him. The only link to him was his  phone number written on a piece of paper one which he squeezed in my palm before he left. Thus, returning home I had this uncontrollable urge to talk to him, a feeling that my soul demanded of me. But I  immediately had to call myself to proprieties wondering how long was a reasonable time to call a stranger one just met out of the blue.Thus, it behooved me to text and ask if we could see each other again but seemingly this thought was transformed in my mind, in a way that I renounced it, only to text him the words  ” thank you.”

    Days turned into weeks and neither did I get to hear from him nor did I get to see him. However, this did not last for long because we bumped into each other one day, right in the same park where we first met.  Thereafter,we continued to meet long after that day until it became a routine. A start of many random dates. We got so close to each other such that by some kind of law of awareness of the needs of the heart, I  began to pour my despair and lay my misgivings to him. He was so nice to me and yes we understood each other and even after I confessed to him that I was married, he made it all the more serious that he was interested in me as a woman and not just a friend. With that, I was not sure whether to feel flattered but then I guess men desire to grasp most, what they consider inaccessible.

    On the other hand, I started developing an irresistible attraction towards him. One which comes the way an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty not like anything obvious. Instead, it installed itself cunningly little by little and before I knew it, my heart and soul went out to him. I imagined, he was my nostalgia for something, an embodiment of some absence, an inscrutable yearning of a noble desire I longed to have, to feel alive again. However, I began to feel compunctions towards my behavior and became resolute on ending all these but I could not bring myself to say no. When it came to him, I was stuck like a leech even though I had a certain feeling of some secret foreboding, that what I am doing would one day be to me some scene of misery. 

    Perhaps. Perhaps, this is how everything forbidden feels, the kind of love that you are taught to abhor turns out to be the most exhilarating. That one which you keep coming back for more like some drug you depend on. An addiction I  have sat through and inside each moment I have felt love cycling back to me once again in a way that is soothing.

    So that as I sit in the office I am autopiloting here and not here, trying to work through the loads of file piled on my desk. I am all  fidgety because of the online grapevine. Well, as soon as I manage to catch a breather, I scroll my phone only to notice that the Facebook post has already become compulsive and everyone is talking about the lifeless body found in the garage. Everybody is talking of murder. But who would  have wanted him dead though? There are so many unanswered questions spinning in my head as my mind wanders off to those past days that turned into weeks and now months. Those days that carried the moments I believed unswervingly I truly lived. Nonetheless, this reality creeps up on me embedding itself  in my spirit not with the force of a hammer but with that of a drill which is more insinuative.

    And as it asserts itself , this reality jangles at my nerves and squeezes at my stomach. My insides collapse. Tears are stinging my eyes. I am hurting and being in so much pain, I resolve to let it all out. I text Lyn, my best friend but there is no response from her end. And just when I thought she did reply, there is a pop- up notification text from my husband that says he would be picking me up from the office.

    Hence, with this piece of news, I try to master my anxiety. I dry my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I decide to put an act by sitting and staying  quietly but it is in vain. It is in vain because I cannot budge this grief that is consuming me within. The feeling is so overwhelming and now my emotions are bubbling on the surface unbidden. When my husband walks in my office, he makes a quick glance at me which turns into a long stare. I am unable to maintain eye contact and it is in this moment of recognition that I know he has managed to ferret my hidden thoughts and he becomes aware of my disquiteness. Then in one solid minute he clears his throat and I hear him say.

    Okay would you want me to hold you, you want to talk it out?

    ‘Yeah yeah,’ came another part of me as I say it breathlessly, all in one gulp.

    However, there is something in the purity of his face that rebukes me. His mere presence seems to recall to me the memory of the innocence I have just tarnished. I burst into tears, I truly want to be comforted. He then pulls me closer to him so that I rest my head gently on his chest.

    May I stay like this for a little while?” I ask and his answer comes almost a breath. I however wondered what level of crazy I have reached and how much further I was willing to go. Allowing him to touch me right now feels so wrong and immediately in place of pain for the bereaved is now covered with guilt of betrayal. This act plays an unsettling terror in the most unflinching eerie and gutteral manner within me. Whilst I will not lie that our marriage has since been hanging on a lose thread, atleast for him he was not involved in any affair that I was aware of. Thinking of this, sends tears flowing freely down my cheeks. My nose dripping watery boogers onto his chest forming rhythms of my sobs and my tears forming damp tracks on his shirt.

    “What is wrong ,’ I hear his tender voice.He squeezes me towards him as he tells me to stay close in and tell him the forlorn truth. For a moment I am at the verge of confessing. But what is there to confess when we both know we had already dulled the heights of our passion. We had diminished the memories of the feelings we had felt and now marriage life in every essence was fine dressed in mundanity. Oh! how easier it would be to put the blame on him as I give a soppy rationalization for my delinquency and so I thought. Hence, truth is the last thing I want. That would be cheating death on the face. Heaving up and down fighting another bout of crying I start to speak.

    Well,my friend,you see she died…I feel this way because…’

    He keeps holding me. I cannot tell what he is or isn’t thinking but my plan is for him to cling to whatever frail explanation I offer him. I let myself cry some more so as not to be probed any further. I mean, I only want to explain why I am acting odd. So I stay close in, feeling all good and terrible wrapped up in his arms. I become calm and for a moment there is a pin drop silence that staggers, one which engulfs both of us. Then came his voice cutting through the air.

    So are you not going to tell me about this other death of a man found dead in his garage?’ he asks as he rubs my arms and smooches my forehead. This blast of sanity constricts my throat. My body almost jerks into a sitting position. How does he know? Could it be he has been on the know all this while ? Or am I just having bad thoughts? Even so, I do not feel safe anymore. I want to flee but he has me tightly embraced and now I need proof that I am not dreaming. So I whisper a prayer…

    ©️Silpah Rehema.


  • Torn withinside

    (unedited) by Rehema

    “Everyone manages it without fussing,” that has always been the creed. A kind of insidious pressure that kept gnawing at me. Well, I must say I equally put up a good fight but this could only stretch to a certain magnitude where it became so overwhelming to stay closed up. And each time that happened, I would slip and often find myself lashing out. My misgivings would erupt in fits of aggression and my anger would often shake the both of us. Hence, this condition solely owned by me was such that I could not draw satisfaction in all these things that were entirely reserved for me. That this place was a totally different kind of bubble from that which I had earlier on anticipated at first sight. Hence, I derived no fulfilment in it and instead I felt a void of sheer emptiness outrightly within me.

    So that as I got acquainted to this routine of my life, I became a shadow of my former self. Whereby my life moved on without me getting involved. Where I questioned this life I had newly signed up for, not so long ago. That this new life’s terms and conditions had flown past me contrived, to only find out later, that all along I was living his version rather than our own. That intellectually he would persistently champion for my liberty but acting on it became a dilemma. Thus, yielding to the fact that he was too self centered is what irked me the most. That he never took an interest to seek out what desires I held and how convenient that he failed to have had any intention towards listening to the things that set my soul ablaze. With that, neither did he see the cracks in my facade nor the weariness beneath my sarcasm and silent suffering.

    Well, I would not lie that at times he made efforts. However, those few little moments he created were so ephemeral and on transit. They could not suffice the problems we had. Rather, they acted as dodge balls to our chaos which without reserve needed to be stamped out. Even so, on such days, my eternally grieving body would settle for crumbs of peace preventing the exhaustion that would otherwise have consumed me whole. That be that as it may, my enthusiasm for the union had already waned. For seemingly there was another possibility that would not escape and that was, we had already dulled the heights of our passion. We had diminished the memories of the feelings we had felt and now life in every essence was fine dressed in mundanity.

    And with this disconcerting discovery, I had dreaded the idea of mother and the concept of motherhood in a situation so hazy. Becoming one would naturally end my professional interests since it would involve juggling everything, meals and child, shopping and cooking, so I thought. Thus, it behooved me to experience pleasure like a future pain because love making to me turned out to be a domestic activity neither an adventure or something to look forward to. So that one time when I learnt of my conception, my anger towards him intensified. Then we began to have unending squabbles to which I eventually decided to opt out, him completely unaware of my state. And just like the union ended, so did the new life inside me. A resolve that has continued to haunt me just because of the choice I made to do with my body.

    So that as I stare in the mirror today, the image on it, brings me to the realization that I have been unmarried for weeks. That I have had the pleasure of enjoying the glory of my solitude. Taking a hold of the world once more like a single lady and with this freedom, I have been able to work in my room without being disturbed. A day where I am not banking on anyone’s success. However, this image on the mirror has fear written all over it. The fear that all that is left of me is quietness and ache. That the quest of fulfilment that I so much longed for has managed to thrust my body and mind in doubt, struggle and uncertainty. That never have I been happy, always with a hint of peace, yet with a whole yearning for it. That these state I have attained, these things I now have, I wanted them so badly that I did not breathe and now that they are here, all I want is to curl back into that moment before they arrived.

    Then the image begins to reflect back on me more alive, forcing me to notice how many days it has been since I left someone and something behind. It reminds me how I had left parts of me with tears in my eyes without looking back. And of all the days today, it thrusts me back into my past showing me my yester and present life upon which whose comparison I immediately grieve. It makes me sad as it forces me to face the chasm that separates the hopes of one time from the reality of another. For this is a thing about the past. It never forgets. It retains something that will see itself just like a mirror in everything, be it people or places, always pointing towards a particular memory one swore to assign to oblivion. For each time I fought to suppress it, it would unabashedly strengthen, only to bury itself deeper within my mind.

    This I affirm because even though I walked away, not once did I stop thinking of him. At times my phone would pinge and each time it did, I would get so consumed with hope, which usually only lasted the time it took me slowly to pick up the receiver and say hello. Nonetheless, when I realize it’s not him, often I would feel so utterly dejected. Sometimes, I would just sit reliving moments where both of us thought how we had everything else figured out. Those moments where we felt nothing had changed whilst both of us were already lost, damaged a little beyond redemption. Other times, I would imagine that he loved me in a way I did not understand or perhaps. Perhaps, the fact that I still think of him, pure without pastiche is enough proof that the fault may not have lain in ourselves but rather in our incompatibility.

    So that as I keep staring in the mirror some more, it occurs to me that nature continued to pursue it’s course. I could feel my breasts swollen under my blouse. That it has already started producing milk to nurture a child I did not birth but gotten rid off. Surely, nothing can alleviate my madness to sanity and assuage this sorrow within. I wonder what more would be sacrificed to chase after an equality that completely eludes me. Thus, when the pain comes, I don’t fight it. And when the sadness comes, I acknowledge it. And when the tears come I let them roll, hot salty beads down my cheeks. And I say to myself, that albeit this hurts so much I have to endure and feel the blast of it’s sting. For this grief I am experiencing is by all means what I can only describe as a sense of atonement for my decisions.

    Image@pinterest


  • A conversation due

    By Rehema

    (unedited)

    As I sit on my bed, my body is in repose but not quite in repose because beneath my skin, my muscles are tensed up, anxiety keeps building ulcers in the pits of my stomach whilst in the inner recesses of my heart I become oppressed not by apprehension or fear but by an internal sensation which weighs upon my heart. It impedes my breathe and now it feels like I am running out of air. Where it feels like I am drowning because I have made myself a pageantry of pain.

    This pain that has caused my entire life to crush on me with a desperation of a heart forsaken by God. This pain that has hypertrophied and made it terrible for me to speak loud of the things that keep churning within me. Such that as I endeavor to conceal these things, my body refuses to condone such proceedings and now it has them manifesting outside, worn upon my flesh in form of trembles and tears, unmasking my inner struggles plunging me into a form of authentic, to be encountered if not seen through. And now I have no other recourse other than to make this call in the middle of the night.

    Hence, I call Enzi because I have so many unspoken words collected within my heart. I call her even though I left her on read six months ago. I call her because she understands the language of my silence. She deciphers this and gives me space to be alone. To bask in the glory and hell of my solitude. Thus, I am not even fretting of the sequence of words I will use to get back to her. For ours has been a friendship which provides sanctuary from the world of facades. Where we can both be ourselves. Where I can come undone without the duress of being something I am not. And for a person like me who has felt the weight of unmet expectations on my shoulders, Enzi has no idea what gift she has bestowed me. For this woman has carried my misgivings for the longest. She has tucked and locked my secrets in her breasts and has continued to drench love, warmth and tenderness in my heart.

    So when she picks my phone call, I imagine she will want to know all the details of where I have been, what I have been doing, with whom and why wasn’t that person her. And as I dissolve into tears within the first few seconds of hearing her voice, she will steer the conversation from subtleties of the pleasantries to the brunt of the matter. Then she will insist something is wrong and she will tell me not to be pretty with her and in that moment of recognition, she allows me to be ugly and I will slowly begin to offload my burden. I will move to confess that I have since cried these past months for hours. Some mornings I would awake with an enormous sensation inside me, one which I cannot identify if the urge is to take my life away or break into lyrical outbursts. Such that I would stay afloat through days in their pangs and toils, autopiloting here but not really here withstanding the pressure irregardless.

    I want to tell her that it befitted me to do calls, send letters which I suspected that once my ex husband had received them, he probably tore them before they could reach my daughters. Even so, that did not stop me from writing. So that as I cling to hope waiting for something to change, checking for responses if they might actually reply, I would cradle this ache inside me as if it does not take every ounce of me to keep reaching out again and again. Just one chance is all I need. To tell them my side of the story. Hoping they will understand my ‘whys,’ being that they have come of age. However, I wonder how long I would have to endure the vexation of being shooed in a corner as though I do not exist. Yet I deserve it, for with them I had been rash and by all means this treatment is what I can only describe as a sense of atonement for my decisions.

    I want to tell her that one time heavens granted me the consolation of getting a call from my eldest daughter. The call was harried but the message so intense that it has continued to haunt me up to date. Whilst I was happy listening to my baby’s voice after so long , she was ranting , calling me names and throwing insults at me of how despicable a mother I am to her. How she already severed ties and labelled me dead, obliterated for good in her life. Then she broke in an avalanche of self loathe sentiments. She spoke ill of herself and wanted me to see how she has turned out to be because she lacked a mother’s love. But how do I tell her that I never stopped loving her?

    Nevertheless, I did not counter her mania for self denigration because I had a hunch she is going through one of those early adolescents phases and so I drew out as long as possible to remain calm. Neither did I contradict her even though my insides were shattering as she passed her judgement on me. Unlike the scars from the lashing a man might give, her words were deep and they cut through my insides creating a jolt of grief and immense discomfort within me. And just like the fire must burn and the river must flow, this too had to hurt because I am guilty and in some way, I am the origin of her pain and suffering.

    I want to tell her that even with that single opportunity I involuntarily remained clammed up. Asking for forgiveness is not easy and seeking redress is harder than I thought. That even though I pushed them out of my body as they left my tummy a flaccid basin, I ceased being joined to them and now they seem alien to me, each with their own minds making it harder for me to convince them to hear me out. Thus, with that chance slipping away, there has since been fear in me that I might fade in them. That they will forget my name and completely assign me to oblivion and the good memories of their early childhood that they had of me before, will dwindle away to nothingness.

    So when Enzi responds because she has a way of waiting until I finish whatever I am saying no matter how lengthy, she talks to me with such a certainty of listening that I feel not a single word, not an emotion, was wasted, and I am not ashamed when I feel like crying. I burst out crying without hesitation, sure that she understands me. She tells me; take hold of today, do not regress, do not lose yourself, keep a tight grip and do not give up on your children. This journey will involve a lot more grieving that you’d expect but you are a strong woman. For such rejections do not mean you are not getting there.

    To be accepted you have to submit yourself to the mortifying ordeal of being rejected one too many times and when they finally grant you this forgiveness remember that a second chance does not mean that you are in the clear. In many ways, it is the most
    difficult thing. Because a second chance means that you have to try harder to prove yourself worthy. Thereafter, in a long pause after she has talked, a warm silence engulfs both of us making me all calm. Upon breaking it after some time I ask her about her life and the answer comes almost imperceptibly, almost a breath and we end up talking about our lives, fate, dreams and tragedies until we all hang up bidding each other goodnight.

    ©️ Sifa


  • Madness unto Sanity

    By Rehema

    Something bad is about to happen. It is already in the room. I can feel the pressure and terror that is like a twisted cord running down the centre of my body. This unknown thing frightens and shakes my existence. Then, I begin to wait. I wait and wait some more but then it does not happen and so when it fails to manifest itself physically before me, I start to feel it inside my body. My body suddenly begins to hurt. It is an unpleasant hurt. Sickening, that’s the word I would use. It continues slowly then gains momentum as it courses through me with so much plenitude that it fails to stop, making the gravity of this ache excruciating. There is no hiding from this pain and just like the river must flow so must this too sting.

    Hence, as I am still hurting, this pain presses upon me to act in some way but a terrible force bears me down back to immobility, forcing me to remain at an impasse. However, some external stimuli occasionally triggers my urge to break this stalemate and when it does, I struggle to maintain a straight face. I strongly will to do so, even though my insides are plunged into a maelstrom of emotions. Even though thoughts are rippling my mind. Even though both my mind and body are at odds and to the further extreme where panic and anxiety are bouldering through me, I still firmly endeavor to guard myself against any lyrical outbursts.

    So that in this exact minuteness, I am sustained for a while by my belief. This belief that returns me in memory, to self introspect similar places of my previous woundedness. One that makes me affirm that this current place I am in, is not in any way alien to me. For this place, I have seen my death a myriad times before. This place, I have sailed through much worse horrific episodes. This is the place where I lost myself to the darkest of depths. That this place, exactly this spot, I have killed and birthed, accepted and surrendered, loved and let go, to re-emerge whole again enmeshed fully, in all my damaged glory.

    But be that as it may, I continue to stick on this conviction. I hold on to it as it keeps me buoyed. I cling to it until the last ounce of my energy wanes. Until, I become drained and defeated. Until, I succumb to the forces battling tenaciously within me. These forces which have since assumed a separate identity and began pursuing interests of their own quite apart from mine. These forces that makes it difficult for me to find balance astride both worlds, the internal and external. And as if that is not enough, I become victimized by my body and now this body keeps the score because I chose to remain adamant, stubbornly failing to listen to it.

    Thus, it starts to make overt the pains that I have long strived to contrive inside. It manages to find a conduit to express itself worn upon the flesh. It goes ahead to put words in my mouth which become the cause of my screaming. It waltzs my moods which becomes the cause of my grumpiness. It creates hollowness within me with the knowledge that life went on for most people. So it makes me irritated with the presence of another person when all they have done is nothing annoying except for their inadvertent failure to even take a quick glance to read my chaos.

    And everytime in the last few months, that I’d observe myself, in the middle of such similar agitation, I’d seen a stranger who was never me but really me. That even this bone deep, nice and kind person could lash under pressure. That this well meaning , generous person could turn out selfish when certain circumstances rouse. Such that, as this moment of recognition upholds, I become vulnerable. I strip myself bare and bow down in all my humanness. To be seen through, some way to be felt, touched, loved and found out.

    Hence, I decide to gift myself this space to bleed my mind without revulsion. To let these chaos churning within me, pour in form of sobs. Because sometimes it becomes agonizingly hard to open up to someone about being sad for no reason. To explain to them that there is a heavy feeling pressing on one’s chest for no reason. To tell them, that it has become difficult to understand oneself and worse still, to admit to them that you are feeling scared because the whole world is outrightly falling on your shoulders and you have no idea why.

    Consequently, when tears abate, I understand why this madness was necessary for sanity. Other times you don’t have to see yourself as the protagonist and imagine to have monopoly on suffering. Sometimes you just have to see yourself as a part of the whole and reward yourself with kindness. Nonetheless, when sobriety envelopes me and my reflection catches me off guard, I laugh amidst this distress because I have been a good deal crushed. That even though these bruises from the whilrlwind still sting, I feel as though I am partially off the torture screw. For over and over again will these days and nights come, the anxiety, the aversion, the mistrust and I will still live and love life with new intensity.



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The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.

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