Tears

“What are emotions?” one questioned.
“It’s the plural term of emotion, I guess?” the other wondered.
“So.. what is emotion?” one questioned again.
“I don’t know,” the other wondered again.
“Ah, but it’s countable right? As in you can count them?” one asked.
“I don’t know.” The other stopped wondering.
The two lads conversed in commas and full stops, their silent demeanour unknown to the outside world. The world beyond, however, listened.
The day before they had to part ways, they sat again on the exact spot- where the statue of a weeping man rested. It was a legacy left behind by the ancestors of this town and the mayor had thought it was a brilliant idea to set it up in the east side of the town. The statue was a representation of demise for the prisoners and freedom for those who escaped. All in all, it meant the weak perished.
The following year, they decided to meet again.
Drip Drip Drip
The day arrived.
It was a blissful day as laughter filled the air. He was sharpening his axe on the west side of the town. His pair of boots were smudged in red as his mind drifted to the night before. He remembered the promise he made a year ago and was contemplating whether or not he should go. His hands were stained with blood and not a single ounce of water had come out. He was no longer afraid of being weak. So why should he go to the east? He was safe in the west and surrounded by people who, just like him, were no longer weak. And so, he decided not to come.
The following years he continued sharpening his axe.
Lost in thought, he realized his cheek was wet and his feet had landed him right in front of the statue of a weeping man. It was the same day he watched his friend die. The night darkened and the sky was pitched black and so he wept and wept, questioning for the last time.

On a faraway land, there lived a man.
He walked around the street with a rose in his hand.
It was a rose, one out of many but over the years, he tamed it into becoming the rose.
A single petal faintly fell to the ground, and another, another, another and then he loosened his grip on the rose.
The rose was barely surviving and it would have died in the wilderness except it was gently enclosed on the palm of the man’s hand.
It lived until the man’s life came to an end, but even then like a phoenix reborn from fire, it grew beside the man’s grave – standing and protecting him for over than a thousand years.

Anonymous

The one thing I noticed was that during those days, it would always rain heavily in the afternoon, at the worst of times. As the professional bike rider of the nearby vicinity, it was something of a ‘job’ for me to traverse the gravel to and fro the university where I studied and the home where I lived. Hearing the sound of the gears whirring as the other bikes passed me, I spotted a man with half-unkempt clothing and protruding earphones. But as soon as a drop of rain falls by the side of his face, I could see him whizzed past me like the drone of a cricket.

Chehara Vitaran

 

If there is a way to feel old without being old, I think I’ve just found it. The songs they play on the air are so lifeless, lacking soul. It’s music, for sure, but it’s become lacklustre, trite. Has everything gone downhill since then? It sure seems to be. I can’t look at the paper with a straight face anymore in the morning, nor can I get on board with the latest fad, only to forget it tomorrow like what I had for luncheon yesterday at the canteen. Everything looks so cynical to my mind, and so jaded to my eyes, the foregone conclusion that the world has moved too far whilst leaving me behind. The things my parents and grandparents told me about the world sure seemed brighter than what I originally thought. That’s because after tasting history and culture, I find the things of the modern age to have fallen from grace, by comparison, a shrivelled shadow of the former days. Here I pine for the days I never knew, reliving the days I never experienced, wishing I could go back to a time that never was.

Chehara Vitaran

The only thing that defines me is a lack of self; at least, the self that one could see. Whatever the analogy du jour was- be it a changeling, a shapeshifter, an actor or a bearer of many masks – it was an element of pretence. Like a façade, one only sees the front- the “face” of its building but never what lurks behind it. Like a business that springs from money laundering, the unconscious mind is kept away from such things, maintaining an air of naivety and innocence, appeasing its patrons and onlookers. On occasion, the mask slips, the walls show cracks, string snaps, but it doesn’t take too long for such mistakes to be mended.

Chehara Vitaran

Letting You Go

I thought I would suffer, that my heart would be anguished with the loss of you. Or worse, maybe it would stop beating altogether.

Maybe without you, I would simply cease to exist.

I thought I would become adrift, for you had been the anchor I had formed my identity upon, the compass I had relied on for my direction. I thought without you I would become lost, disoriented.

I had expected to taste salty tears as they fell upon lips that once spoke so fondly of you; that my head would lay on my pillow damp with tears for as many nights as the moon continued to kiss the stars.

But one day, I just knew.

I hadn’t expected such a feeling of relief as I cut the ropes that once shackled me to you. One instant of tremendous clarity. One instant, where I finally knew.

I no longer needed you.

I no longer needed your opinion of me, your affirmation, your approval.

I no longer needed your judgments, your criticisms, your condemnations.

I no longer needed your expectations I could never meet; your hoops too high to jump through, your goal posts that shifted with every changing breeze.

I no longer needed your blame, your excuses, your justifications.

I no longer needed your pseudo love, fraught with conditions and attached with strings.

I thought I needed you. I didn’t.

I thought it would be hard to let you go. It wasn’t.

I thought I would miss you. I don’t.

For in one instant my heart was awakened to the truth of who I am.

I am more than the lies you made believe about myself. I am more than the look of failure in your eyes when I fell short of your demands. I am more than how worthless you made me feel. I am more than the ways you tried to break me.

I am a warrior, sculpted by the hands of creation, fashioned into being by the very hands that created the oceans and the stars and the mountains and air.

I am strong, I am brave, I am wise. I am gentle of spirit with the heart of a lioness.

I am creative, passionate, sensitive, and kind. I am of open heart and an open mind. I am powerful, generous, thoughtful, daring, empathetic, raw, complex, courageous, understanding, forgiving.

I am everything you are not.

I will no longer carry the shame you made me suffer under the weight of.

That shame belongs to you….

Ashmita

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