The night is a mistress of life. It is the hardest time to be alive for, those silent hours bring forth Melancholic air and scandalous actions. In its prime it feeds off of the secrets, schemes and lies made within it, knowing it was only a matter o...
"The point was to learn what it was we feared more: being misunderstood or being betrayed."- Adam Levin
NEW YORK, NEW YORK NOVEMBER
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One moment I'm as whole as I could be and the next, a piece of me inside breaks off a bit and slips away into the abyss.
My lungs inflate and discomfort wedges its way through my body, stealing away everything that was meant to provide relief, to keep me going. I felt the shudder that worked to run over me as I swallowed back the words to expose any emotion of mine and tasted all the grief riddled in them.
The grief of what could've been, grief of what cannot be, and the remnants of the tragedy that led me here.
Whenever I look at my life, although I do not feel the urge to burst into tears, that wave of melancholy always appears. It's a need to mourn what's been lost; it's the desire to go back to a time when the only knowledge of tragedy I had was nothing more than words written and stories shared, not experiences.
I was so young when I realized that sorrow doesn't discriminate, it spares no one and goes whenever it can find a home.
Even so, my death-defying experiences have a lacerating duality—haven't not been properly buried and yet act as my armor. Time went on, life went on, but every time I was hurt, a small piece of me was broken here; every time the demarcation moved further, a small piece was shattered, innocence lost.
As a result, the armor built, and I withdrew inside. Today, I look the same, I even feel the same at times, but the truth is I've changed. And that change made me a lie, inaccessible, unrecognizable, to those in my orbit.
There is no point to this, this wanting will forever be unanswered. So, I seldom feel shame or regret about this. I don't have the luxury to do so. I don't have the luxury to think of it-- to try and understand what I've become and to remember who I was before this.
I cannot care about why everyone expects me to have become restless, and harsh and despairing because of this.
I do not have the time to succumb to existential despair or wonder why.
Maybe the ability to become who I am was prewritten; maybe it's genetically coded; maybe when that first tragedy was inflicted on me, that lethal blow, caused something to leak out of me and has been doing so ever since. Be it my blood, my experience, my fate, my luck...I am who I am and have made my peace with it.
In crisis and in chaos, through every twist and turn, no matter who condemns me, I don't allow myself to think or feel it. Instead try to focus on the things I have a modicum of control over.
Because the world spins madly on even when I crave nothing more than a pause, a break to breath, to enjoy simplicities.
