Wednesday 28 August 2013

Monologue : Wound

We were on the sand. I was in your arms. Your fingers were tracing the curves of my face. My chin rested against your chest, I nuzzled and you pulled me closer. And now your fingers traced the curve of my lips. As I smiled, you kissed me on my nose. It was the perfect moment. My heart beat was in sync with yours and so, every time I panicked and mine quickened, your heart beat would bring it back to track. The sun was beginning to set. A golden hue lit up the beach. The light in your eyes lit up my soul. That moment was beautiful, it was perfect. Tiny waves touched my feet. It tickled more when your toe traced a line from my toe to my knee. Your lips touched mine, and I closed my eyes. Your fingers were now tracing gibberish on my back and when they reached the nape of my neck, I think I died. The color of my cheeks stained that path from your shoulder leading to your neck. Your soul patch was rough against my smooth skin. It was starting to get dark. The chill in the air and the warmth from your body gave me a bunch of butterflies. I think I felt caterpillars too.

And then you eased me off your arms, stood up and walked away. You walked away before the insanity hit me. You were gone. You were gone before I realized how alone I was on the sand now. You never looked back.

“This can’t be happening! No!”

I woke up with a jerk. I was on my bed, one side of it empty. Sweat beads lined under my lips. My hair was a mess. The nape of my neck was wet too. Blinking rapidly, I got adjusted to the dimness of the night light. My body felt stiff from the violent jerk I had woken up to. My eyes were burning and the heat drained to my cheeks. I moved to the edge of my bed, I was restless. I checked the time, it was 3 AM. Just another night, just another night mare. I sighed. I reminded myself of the reality. The ironical, impossible-to-believe reality. The tragic fairytale of a life. I poured some water to my arid mouth. A drop of water escaped and raced down my chest. Just the same way tears started escaping from my eyes. I fell back on my pillow, getting ready for another insane wave of emotions.

Why? Why did you have to leave? Why did you have to walk away? Break something that was so beautiful? Why? Questions clouded my head. Why did you go? Why did you let me go? The fact that I knew the answer threw the irony in my face. Because I knew the lies of the truth. I knew the facts of the fiction. I knew the grim reality. Tears streamed down my face. A sudden heaviness was taking over my head. I knew the bitch of that familiar headache was on its way. I took my iPod, music is my savior.

I scolded myself for having gotten in the hopeless situation again. I tried to tell myself that nothing is gonna matter. I reminded myself that it’s all over. I searched my memory for the updated image of our happily ever after. The update had resulted in crashing of the image, the pixels were scattered. The hearts were broken.
I wanted to quieten the chatter in my head. A voice was telling me to buckle up. Other one was asking me to not give a fuck. Another one was asking me to search for my self-respect. “For the love of god! You don’t have a shred of self respect do you?” Yet another one was calm and mature, asking me to accept the reality and grow up. It was telling me how I should act like I am a grownup or something. Grownups don’t cry over stupid things like emotions it seems. They are grown ups, they have to lead a life, or make a life. They have to worry about grades and medals, and taxes and money management. They don’t wake up to night mares, they are too tired from the day to wake up at night. The voice was telling me. I was trying to justify, you know. The world thinks I am a grown up. It thinks I handle everything, it thinks I am awesome. It thinks I have moved on. A part of the world thinks I moved on too fast. But nobody knows that little voice, the 16 year old, youngest of all the voices. This voice is always bullied around you know? Every time it asks for you, every time it launches itself to a rebellion wanting the golden sands and arms back, it gets chided. Most times by the voice that talks about my self respect. But then the friendly voice which tells me about grown up things takes control.  It tells that 16 year old not to worry. It distracts the voice with sweet things like pink, fluffy clouds and love. And this thing called goals and aims. Money. Shoes and sling bags.

But tonight, the 16 year old didn't want to listen. I knew why.

Because you are like a wound. In the days when you first walked away, you were like a fresh one. Burning, bleeding all the time reminding me of your existence like a wound. Or the lack of you as you in my life. As time passed by, the wound started healing. I would look at it once a day or something. You know before hitting the bed and after waking up. As more time passed by, the wound was definitely healing. I was feeling better. I was even positive that it won’t even leave a scar behind. Those days were beautiful. The bliss of arrogance, ignorance, and a little hatred.  I was sure of forgetting the wound after finding a new playground. I actually found a new playground, right around the corner. But the thought of a new game, made the wound alive. It’s like somebody pulled away the dry skin. The wound was fresh J

Right then I knew, you are the wound that will always stay. And you are the only remedy to the wound called you. You are like a melody; you are stuck in my head. Though you walked away without completing the song, I will keep the unsung song safe in me. I won’t find a new melody to complete our unsung song. I might start a new song, but this song will always be there back in my head, its melody haunting me.

Its melody telling me how everything will be okay. I don’t know what okay means though. I have quit trying to write a new melody over yours.

And I turned towards your side of the bed, expecting a toe to trace a line till my knee. I don't know when I fell asleep. 

The next morning when I woke up, I found the meaning of okay.

Okay is going back to the beach. It’s letting the tiny waves touch my feet. It’s being in your arms and tracing your soul patch. It’s tracing the curve of your smile. Its kissing your nose when you give me that loop sided smile. Its falling in love all over again every time I hear your voice.

Okay is being with you. Or hoping to being with you.

Because you just don’t stop loving someone. You learn to live with memories. You tell the world that you are doing great, and only your best friend knows which nights you cried yourself to sleep. And which evenings you spent going insane.And how most of those evenings and nights are such nights. 

Because all those little voices shut up, and one voice remains back. People call it hope. My hope lies in the gold lit beach, and I know. Someday, we will be back at the beach, tiny waves at our feet.

PS: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anybody’s life is purely co-incidental. The images don't belong to me. The link is here. Also, I am a little ill, I might not reply to comments/mails for a couple of days. Don't hate me :D This is a scheduled post :)

post signature


Leave comments, let me know you were here :)
PS: Please refrain from leaving links behind, I shall click on your user name when I want to visit your site :)