Evasion

I’m about to write something today; and I believe these words of mine will do the talking, or maybe screaming. But believe you me, it’s meant more for me than for others. I want these words of mine to converse with my own subdued half, to take my sobriety away from my discreet shadows. It’s merely an attempt at incinerating a few bad memories that I’m aware are incombustible. It’s a snagged snippet from my story that remains obscure at a curb in my consciousness. I know where it’s hidden, and yet, my senses shudder every single time I set out for its hunt.

Well, it was an evening time; and I like to believe the sky was painted with hues of tangerine, cocooned inside an endless, idyllic stretch of quiet satisfaction. But, I know it wasn’t; it couldn’t be. It was a season of monsoon winds. The days around must have been filled with the cacophony of raindrops hitting raw soil and wet concrete and the sky must have been painted grey by the behemoth dimension of clouds.

I wonder if my faint cries were loud enough to be recognised among the clamorous rain and thunders. But, I’m sure they were visible to the doctor and my mother. My cries were a mark of rejoice among others. They assured that I was alive. I was born that day.

I grew up with each passing day. Gradually, I was acquainted with the amazement of controlling my tarsals. I learnt to find beauty in my cuticles. But, all along these years, I yearned to feel the pleasure behind the blunt sound of a ball hit by a wooden bat. I craved to know how it felt to straddle my legs across my father’s shoulders, or to lose myself to a myriad of my mother’s lullabies. When I gathered a modicum of sense, I started to suffer from an ailment that never existed. I call it premature maturity. I accuse my family for it.

As this worldly sense started stacking, I understood how the things should have differed from how they occurred. I finally knew of the twisted words that should have been blessings, the relations that should have bestowed love, and the askew scenes that cudgelled my heart more than my tender skin. I wanted the things to turn into a pristine cascade overnight. But, maybe, there was no water.

I was entoiled in murky cobwebs and lost in a labyrinth that had no beginning or end. Somehow, I managed to find love for things in that infinite maze. After a few years, I found my affection for the black of ink. Each day, it grew stronger and swiveled inside my veins with a greater strength. Soon, I was engulfed inside a creek of ink. I was afraid as I didn’t know how to swim. But, I didn’t need to. I floated all the way and it drifted me away from the place. It carried out my evasion.

I thought I had escaped. Oh well, genuine maturity was still to strike in, and when it did, I was able to see the inconspicuous. I couldn’t twitch my sight away from my mother’s tears. I couldn’t forget my past. I still remembered every cusp and corner of the labyrinth. I could still feel the old shiver rummage through invisible blots on my skin. I tried to sew my past and present into delusionary, flowery seams. I never knew that the threads were broken.

I still don’t know how it feels to be lost in a reverie reminiscing one’s childhood, or teenage, or maybe present. I don’t know if these words I’ve written will erase the memories of my past. Even if they do, the blurry marks will always stay alive. Maybe not conscious, maybe dormant, but alive. I don’t know if anyone will ever read these words that I have written for my own rescue. Maybe there’s a chimera behind them that I’m ignorant of; and maybe someday, I’ll learn how to decipher it. That day I’ll come back to these words in the hope that I’d learn how to let it go; and if I do, I’m sure I shall discover myself.