I would be lying if I said no one had the least amount of idea of the pain I’m in. As lighting accompanies thunder, so is my life a flush of humour, mingled with the wutherings of my wrath.
When the alarm goes off at nine, I leave my bed with damp eyes that haven’t slept; My feet hang down from the edge of the bed as I wipe off the tears with my pastel blue blanket that have gone dry after flowing all night. I do it because I can’t look for my kerchief in a messy bed. I slide my feet into a pair of yellow flip-flops and walk towards the wash basin.
In my zombie like apocalyptic walk from the bedroom to the hall, I find Dad reading his morning news paper and munching on a crispy bread toast with brimming hot cup of coffee kept aside. He gives me a look that tells me I’m late again. Towards the kitchen as I move, Mom comes out hastily with two bread toasts held in her hand. She’s dressed and ready to leave for work.
Before she steps out of the door, she gives me a peck on my cheek and whispers in my ear, “I’ll bring you macarons on my way back home sweetie.” And to that I smile weakly, knowing what an amazing thing it is to wake up to your mother telling you that she’d bring you macarons on her way home.
Finally making it to the wash basin, I look into the mirror fixed above it that has turned greyish and dilapidated from the sides but does the job. My eyes look like they’ve been blown air into – puffy and moist. Gliding the toothbrush through the corners of my mouth, I contemplate on the problems of the world and how insignificant mine seem in front of them. With the world running in my mind I hear Dad yelling, “Spit it out, and sit to work. I can’t reheat the food again and again!”
Putting on my glasses, I peer into my laptop reading all the mails. As none of them have any useful content, I shift onto my books. They have nothing but peace to offer me for they know it’s hard to find these days. Flipping through the pages, my eyes cloud with tears, yet again, pining over the things that happened. It’s like, I no more have control over them; as if someone punctured my lacrimal glands and it ended up in continual weeping.
I don’t know what makes sense to me anymore. I wonder if it’s a good day to give up on life but the thought of what may happen after scares me to the core. If only death was so simple, you wouldn’t find me tomorrow. I hold my books firmly to my chest and think about the times when in monologues I spoke to them about my deepest scars. They are the ones to see it all and to put me back into pieces. The world holds me back for simple pleasures I get while reading.
As the sun turns dim with the passing hours, I head to my bed that feels like it is made from flowers; my only solace in the whole wide world. I stack my pillows and lay my head on them and it feels comforting as ever. I forget for a moment all the things that are wrong as sleep is the only right. Covering myself with my pastel blue blanket, I face the roof and watch the neon lights that hang. “It’s so pretty“, I say to myself and count the things that have pushed me forward to go on living.
I would be lying if I said no one had the least amount of idea of the pain I’m in. My pastel blue blanket and my books who do it so much better than the rest.
Infinite boulevard 