“One week has passed and you’re still stuck on page number thirty-six. Is everything alright, Annie?” she asks me.
Inside her eyes I see a big question mark getting bigger every second, just like the grief in my heart. But my answer to this question is as unclear as the sun on a foggy day.
“Speak your heart out. You might feel better,” she says again.
“Heart? My heart seems nothing but a casket where my dead dreams breathe with a hope of reincarnation, but my strength is so fragile like the strands of your hair to be carried along with the wind. My life is so dark these days that perhaps, there’s no day that I see, but the roof of the moonless sky where the stars hide somewhere behind a black veil. Don’t ask me to light up a candle, for the burning flame reminds me of everything that got burned with the blast conspired by reality. The reality is a bomber, explodes everything and everyone before the eye lashes part with one another.
I don’t eat food. I am myself a meal that is served to anxiety which eats me up every second. It licks my flesh and plays with the monsters hiding behind my bones. Don’t ask me to play along. There lies no fun in playing a game when it is not a game you really want to play.
They ask me to be happy. But happiness is nothing but a lost friend, who has forgotten my address. A smile kisses my face, every time someone looks at me, just like a disloyal boyfriend who cheats everyone. I laugh, when they try to make me laugh. But behind my laughter is a whispering voice that sings of my grief which people can’t hear due to the commotion of the lies that my face fakes.
Sleep sometimes knocks the door of my eyes, and just when I am about to open it up, it runs away. It is like a mischievous kid, for sometimes it enters without a knock at my door and refuses to leave until it gives me nightmares. Like my selfish aunt, whom I dislike.
And now, you ask me to speak my heart out and speak everything that is within. But there’s nothing inside my soul except for the wounds, from where every ray of hope bleeds. The words I’m speaking are nothing but like the drops of rain that can touch your skin and drench your hair, but can’t travel within you to burst out every reason of pain.”
“I didn’t understand, I am sorry.”
“Well, neither did I,” I say and get up from the rock where I am seated and bid goodbye to my reflection in the lake, the person I am talking to.
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