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It caught me off guard.

The fist landed squarely between my eyes.

I reeled from the shock of impact.

It clobbered me senseless.

I struggled to stay on my feet, barely standing.

 

Before I passed out, I saw it.

The ugly, gloating, bloated, mean face of depression taunting me.

I had lost to it again.

Try as hard as I could; it defeated me.

I couldn’t pry the cold, sharp, merciless claws of self-loath, heaviness, self-pity that were on top of me now.

 

My whole being trembled, shook and ached.

Help! I mouthed, no sound coming out.

With the last dregs of strength, I had left, I yelled.

I wobbled to my knees, weak, worn-out, wary.

As long as I wasn’t laying down, I still had hope, I mumbled.

 

I woke up today and saw it on the news.

I was glad it happened there, far from me.

So ashamed I am of the relief I felt.

So many people had perished there.

 

I woke up today and saw it on the news.

I staggered, shocked I could barely think.

It terrified, horrified, paralysed me.

It happened on my doorstep, right here!

 

I woke up today and saw my reflection in the mirror.

I was listless; a forlorn face gazed back at me.

I heard shouts and wild animated yells.

I almost jumped out of my skin. Where, what? What danger now?

 

I looked and saw they were watching a football match.

Their cries and shouts depicted their joy.

I realized I lived in a bubble shut off from the world.

I mistook shouts of joy for cries of fear and dread.

 

I woke up today and thought to myself.

The world is still a beautiful place.

Despite these dark clouds of horror.

Threatening to smother hope and life.

 

I woke up today and realized I had lost my innocence.

I was no longer naive.

I have morphed, my perception of life has changed.

I now cherish each moment.

 

I blame this and that.

I blame him and her.

I blame you and them.

 

For my bad breaks.

For my deep aches.

For my heart breaks.

 

These high n’ lows.

These dreams that broke.

These fears that torment.

 

There are places you don’t dare go.

Places you don’t dare tread.

Some places are better left unknown.

Places better left unexplored.

 

There are moments when time stands still.

Moments when mine isn’t the will.

Some moments deeply move my core.

Moments that cruelly rip off the mask I wore.

 

Incoherent, jumbled words.

A cocktail, a fruit salad.

Teetering, staggering from the load.

The weight of the confessions they carry.

 

Grateful, deeply moved, for the letter was read.

Time is precious, yours graciously, you offered.

This precious commodity she gobbled.

She drank it up, no drop left.

 

An apology she offers.

For the ungraceful presentation.

Restructure her words she cannot.

The comforting gown of apology is her only recourse.

 

Post scriptum, she adds.

To reassure you, her precious reader is her deep intent.

“Next time, I will be brief.”She promises.

For short and sweet will be the delivery.

 

 

“What have I done wrong?”You asked me.

Many thoughts spiralled into the bottomless abyss of my mind.

“Where to start?”, I wondered.

“What to tell you?”, I pondered

“Would you take it?” I did not know.

I can’t answer your question, just yet.

I am too full, you see.

Full of wrath.

Full of rage.

Full of bitterness.

Full of unresolved issues with you.

So, I would prefer you wondered why I am silent.

Instead of satisfying your curiosity, with my words.

These ever-growing, threatening tsunami of unuttered, unresolved issues between us.

So, you better wait!

 

He’s come back from the watering hole.

By the look of things, the drink must have flowed free and abundant.

Every pore in his body exudes the pungent smell of the precious amber liquid.

Sweet nectar, gushing from the wellspring.

Yes, he drank, profusely and with much gusto.

He seemed to have had more than he could soak in.

He wakes up the next day, parched.

Thirsty, despite drowning himself in this precarious fountain.

He is thirstier than he had been, before arriving at the drinkery.

Without a second thought, he gravitates back to the mirage that beckons him.

Seductive, sublime promises of a tranquil state of quenched thirst.

“This time around, I will belt the drink down.

Then, oh yes! I will be thirsty no more.” He mutters to himself.

He staggers into the yawning, gaping, bottomless watering hole.

The deceitful fountain entices him.

It beckons him with its amber, golden, cold, cruel, empty liquid.

 

 

Why wear yourself out?

Why deny yourself necessary slumber?

Why demean yourself with other’s words?

Why deaden yourself to the gaping need?

 

Need to hold and be held.

Need to behold and be loved.

Need to bestow tenderness and be warmed.

Need to believe and be touched.

 

Touched by the loving embrace.

Touched by the tender gaze.

Touched by the bubbly laughter.

Touched by the open heart.

 

A heart that yearns, longs.

All day long.

To be always strong.

Each day bring.

All sweet songs.

To each time ring.

 

Ring ring ring, this bell.

String string string, these beads.

Strum strum strum, these heartstrings of yours.

 

Cherish, tenderly love.

Only you, the precious other.

 

Lo, behold.

Look and be bold.

Hold on to the cherished one.

When cowardly tendencies, come knocking.

When your heart is aching from cold winds that buffet it.

The cold, barren winds of misunderstanding and unresolved issues.

The sand of bitterness, anger, wrath, and rage

 

Cry groan.

Try frown.

Pry drown.

Sink in this expanse.

This ocean of cold, desolate waters of sorrow and regret that overwhelms.

 

Hold tight.

Crawl slightly.

Tentative attempt.

Tread softly.

Dread most.

Cry pitifully.

 

Hide shamefully.

Wait in despair.

Regret deeply.

Hope in need of repair.

Yearn longingly.

Need tender love.

 

What a sight to behold.

What a night to hold.

A tight embrace to dispel the cold.

A nigh enthralling heady spell.

 

Full of emotions, memories, and voices.

Full of smells, sounds, and sights.

Full full full overflowing.

Full full full gushing, rushing.

 

Unstoppable, like water in a dam under pressure.

The unceasing inflow of the rain-gorged rivers.

The dam bursts under the pressure of the inflow.

The water held in check for long, yearning for release.

The dam bursts free, water gushing, rushing.

The water flows haphazard at first and then in a majestuous new river.

A river that flows free, discovering new horizons, a new life with its new facets.

 

Some don’t care.

Some don’t dare.

Some do tear off.

Some do tear up.

 

Go forward or stand still.

Go onward or mind steep sloppy slope.

Go yonder or mount the cowardly steed.

Go under or prompt the tremulous shaking feet.

 

Run on a lonely road.

Walk on.

Sit down.

Lay down.

Crawl, cry, shout.

 

Whisper, whimper, shriek.

Explode, implode

Exhale, inhale.

Relax, unwind.

Renew, unbind.

 

Renounce, rewrite, share.

Redeem, unravel.

Rethink, undo.

What a day.

What a life!

 

 

Prickly eyes.

Watery eyes.

Blinking eyes.

Restraining eye dews.

Drip drop drip drop.

 

Sigh sigh.

Sight seeking.

Solace needing.

Sweet oblivion.

Poum poum poum poum.

 

Worn out, wanderer.

Wallowing, wimpy.

Wanton whining.

Wishing, wondering.

Thud thud thud thud.

 

Learning, leaning.

Loving, lowering.

Lingering limits.

Looming large.

Love life, live, laugh.

 

She looks around her, hoping to find a place to sit.

She looks for somewhere to rest her weary form.

She looks for a place she can be alone and tranquil.

She looks for somewhere she can mingle with the shadows.

She looks for a place she can shut out the world.

 

She wants to shut out the noise, the bustling of the comings and goings.

She wants to shut out the anger, the disappointment, the disillusionment.

She wants to shut out the painful betrayal, the disdain.

She wants to shut out the pity, the accusatory glances.

She wants to shut out the thick, searing, seething, overwhelming, consuming, staggering pain.

 

The invisible cruel hand of destruction holds her with a merciless iron grip.

The hand holds her in a cold, hard, cutting, tearing grasp.

The hand holds her heart in a grasp that leaves her breathless.

The hand chokes her heart leaving her battling for release, relief.

The hand oppresses her leaving her fighting for freedom.

 

She longs for liberty to live again.

She longs for lighter steps to skip for joy again.

She longs for a lighter countenance to smile again.

She longs for a lighter heart to hope again.

She longs for a lighter load to stand tall again.

 

She remembers how life used to be.

She had a bright, lovely open countenance.

She had a relaxed forehead and cheeks creased with a lovely smile.

She held her head high looking ahead with confidence.

She held herself straight, shoulders thrown back, her gaze confident.

 

Now the weariness had set in.

Now the brokenness had set upon her.

Now the bitterness was suffocating her.

Now the uselessness she felt was suffocating her.

Now the powerlessness she felt had set upon her.

 

Her heart lay bleeding. Shattered by the tragedy that obliterated her once tranquil existence.

 

 

She walks with silent dignity.

She holds herself with quiet grace.

She meets your glance with eyes full.

Her eyes filled with life, its twists, and turns, its bitterness its sweetness.

She has seen it all, almost all, yet she lives.

She lives not merely existing but living.

She exudes gentle and solemn confidence.

She has lived loved and hurt.

She has mourned a loved one.

She has felt the pain of empty hands.

She has felt the sting of betrayal.

She has felt the dizzying disbelief of human violence rent upon her.

Oh, but she still dares to hope, to trust.

She believes that she will yet see another good day.

She grabs with all her strength hope that rises in her heart like the breaking dawn.

 

The hot piece of baguette in my worn out duffel bag warmed my back.

Its tantalizing aroma warmed my mind with the prospect of a full belly.

The kind words, warm demeanor, of the sales lady at the bakery, and the way she served me with goodwill, warmed my soul.

I only had 45 cents.

I had been too ashamed to enter the bakery to buy bread because I knew I did not have enough money.

I had walked for quite a while, scanning the ground, looking for a coin to add to the little money I had.

It was getting late, and I was anxious to get something to eat.

I gathered courage and entered the bakery.

“How much is a baguette,” I asked the baker, terrified I would make a fool of myself.

“85 cents” she replied.

“Is it possible to buy half?” I ventured.

“Definitely yes, would you like a piece?” she asked me.

“Yes please” I responded with joy.

“Happy new year” I shyly added as I gave her 45 cents for the bread.

She looked at me and with a big warm smile and wished me a happy new year.

I left with a spring in my steps.

It is a happy new year because tonight I have a warm piece of bread and I was welcomed and served with respect.

I am full, despite the rumbling in my belly.

 

She had sores all over her face.

They didn’t fill her whole face but gathered themselves into groups.

Each group had their territory.

One group was right above the left eyebrow.

The next one aligned itself along the right side of her face, between her cheek and the graceful curve of her nose.

The last group occupied the tip of her chin.

My first reaction when I saw her was repulsion, then pity, followed by something more profound.

Something warm, kind, in a kindred spirit kind of a way.

I couldn’t look into her eyes, lest I saw what I knew was there.

The pain and shame.

Pain caused by these uninvited inhabitants who took up space on her face.

The pain of the itch they caused her.

An itch she couldn’t relieve by scratching because the doctor forbade her to.

The pain of her parents and siblings bewildered, helpless looks.

They didn’t know what to do to ease her suffering.

The pain of rejection.

She saw people instinctively recoil and move away from her, giving her a suspicious and wary look.

They wondered if even the slightest contact with her would infect them.

Even children didn’t want to play with her.

Harsh looks and reprimands from their parents smothered their natural warmth and kindness.

She felt shame; she didn’t even know why she felt ashamed anymore.

Many things made her feel shame.

She felt ashamed of not being normal.

She felt ashamed of making everyone around her uneasy and guilty.

The guilt they felt for despising her because they found her repulsive.

The guilt that came from the relief they felt because it wasn’t them but her with a blemished face.

She felt ashamed of making them angry and hateful.

She reminded them of the frailty of their existence.

If this can happen to a nine-year-old girl, who apart from her face seemed to be in good health, then it can happen to them.

I finally dared to look into her eyes.

Our eyes locked.

She gracefully cocked her head and smiled at me.

The beauty of her smile was a sight to behold.