You are home

You walk further and you breathe heavily—like you saw a ghost in a man. This breeze on your face is cold, but comforting, like the layers of your jacket insulating your jittery spine. This breeze is your only companion, it always has been and it always will be.

You are mad, but you’re not stressing, no, not today. Your head is on your shoulders, your chin is up, your eyes see the way things are, your mind is in your own hands and your hands … your hands are in your pocket, holding a peace-rock; it’s cold too. That’s how it’s meant to be; you clasp it, rub it, rock it. Sometimes, you also throw it high up in the air and catch it—for

You’re forgotten, by her, by him, by them, by everyone, but that’s okay, you are at peace. You smile at all kinds of animals, but a mere human eye contact is agonizing.  So you look away when they are around or when they approach you.

You’re twenty something. The life has finally started squirting lemon juice in your innocent eyes, but you rub it and move on. You know the difference between peace and happiness, you know the difference between eternity and impermanence. So now, life seems like a puzzle and death seems like the solution.

This day, is unlike any other; it’s been bright all day, but the black clouds chase you everywhere—they seem to have a certain motive. It’s been rather quiet here, but the chaos that vexes your heart, won’t abandon you. Your eyes see beyond the colors and shapes—they see intentions and purposes. And your mouth, your mouth is rinsed with a taste of your dreams and failures.

Your shoes drag you to the wall and your eyes are fixed at the top of an old building. The smoke coming out from the chimney is thick white. Maybe it’s a factory, or a lab or an abandoned old villa. You don’t care, you just want to put your face through it—it’s tempting. You look for a way to climb the wall and your hands leave the peace-rocks in your pockets and clutch the ladder—it shakes at first. It’s rusty and rotten at places. But you’re not terrified, “it’s not another human being”, you tell yourself and climb. The wooden parts at places, are clothed with mildew and have spongy cracks, like the crumbs of a rotten bread. You see tiny slippery worms residing in it. You touch their tails; they swirl, some wiggle and disappear deep inside the wood. You smile and move upwards. It’s dusky now, and it’ll be dark soon. So you keep moving. You keep moving till the sounds of the children playing in the park, become softer and quieter. You keep moving, till you know, one miscalculated step and you’ll smash your head open at the concrete floor.

It’s a terrifying upward climb. There seems to be infinite number of steps, and you are exhausted climbing half of them. So you pause and breathe—your lips bleed. You lick the blood. Your throat wants water, and your spine wants you to lie down. You look down from the top, your vision is blurred and you have a strong urge to leave both your hands, but you give this climb one last push and you make it to the top.

The top, has a bird view; unbiased, forgiving and way above the futile insecurities. You see the sun far at the horizon, going down briskly; your eyes are glued to it—one blink and you could miss it. The tears roll down from your eyes to your mouth; they taste like thousand resentments. You’re thirsty, so a few more drops and your throat would stop begging for it. The sun has disappeared and so have the tears—you’ve always been the night’s child. It’s just you under the stars now. They twinkle and tease you, so you want to be one of them.

You don’t hold grudges anymore, but why is that when you are reminiscing in this moment, all that flashes in front of your eyes are the times, wrapped in the dark silhouettes of betrayals. What’s the purpose of cosmic purity? One love? Is that even a thing?

You take the peace-rock, rub it again and throw it away from the top. You wait till it strikes an object; a metal sheet, a cardboard, another rock. You can’t tell the difference. You throw the other one in the opposite direction and that’s it—you have thrown away everything that you possessed or were proud of.

You remove your jacket and pump your arm. You remove your shoes and feel the temperature of the roof; it’s cold and makes your feet numb. You walk closer to the edge; there is a sign that asks you to stay behind it; you flip it over and walk on it. You’re closer to the white fumes;  it’s everything you have ever seen or imagined in your life; a man, a rock, a gypsy, a nun, a dog, a bone, a cross, a blade, a cut—anything and everything.

You sigh and breathe again. You tell sorry to your mama under your breath. You know, you did not mean to and you know she will understand. You don’t say anything to your dad, because that’s what you both do. You two never talk. You never have anything to talk about, surprisingly, not even today.Their faces flash in front of your eyes and they seem okay, so now you’ve no excuses to not jump. But your heart is thumping harder than ever, and your jaws are glued to one another.

The wind whooshes in your ears; it has a voice that you talk to—quite often and it talks back. It’s a liberator and a redeemer, a guardian and a best friend, a teacher and a punisher. Everything that made you and lives through you.

Something shoves your back as you stand stiff on the edge of the roof and although you don’t know who or what it was, you do know that it will be with you forever, in this life and the next and beyond that.

Your every second is an era and your every breath is a lifetime. You think you’re in this forever—blissfully trapped. Until of course, your spine smacks a pile of bricks. You anticipated pain, but it’s not excruciating pain—it’s fulfilling. Something warm, wets your clothes, your eyes capture the hues of an endless sky, the voices become quieter, there are ringing in your ears, the night turns in to a bright light, it smells like spring, you wake up on the other side. This is your home now.


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