She sat alone, in a corner, in a big house. The house was big, because she felt small. As years had passed, she realized: her muscles weak, her bones brittle, her heart beating slower by day, and silent by night. But there were times, when her heart beat raced at speed of light. Those times did come, but as rare and as frequent as the full moon. And here she is, in her lows right now. Sitting peacefully at sight, but a grenade inside. Still as a wall. sitting on its axis, motionless. The only sound around her came from the powerful inhales and exhales of her breath. It takes an effort to breathe. ‘I need power I don’t have. I am so alone.’
And there she sits. with legs crossed at the knees. Her numb white feet in anguish and pain, not willing to touch the ground beneath. They have life of their own. They hurt, they burn, they have to yet yearn, another day, another hour, another second. They have to touch that floor. Support the weight. It’s their duty. She has nothing else to walk with. Her bones so brittle, they may break and the agony of pain so high that she may not even notice. Situated on that sofa, which might feel soft for most except her. She feels alone. She is alone. ‘Yes, they love me, yes, they care. But they don’t have time and there’s not a thing that can be done. I am old and alone. And that’s the way I shall be. This is my destiny till death. I have no comfort. And I am way outside their comfort zones. Busy with life, they are. And I am a nuisance to life itself.’ The thought fills her eyes with invisible tears. Since her life is at the edge where tears demand effort. ‘Anytime now is my time.’ She prays to God for the mercy of death. No longer can she live, with this heavy, agonizing breath.
She put her left arm on the arm rest. She is holding a cigarette, half smoked and still burning in her densely wrinkled trembling hands. With effort worth a ton she lifts that a kilo of osmium worth of ash. And touches it to her lips. And now she is breathing it in. Sucking the only pleasure she has left in her life. The smoke is swirling in the still air. Showing her images of her darkest deepest desires. And it may have also shown her, the solutions to her problems. But how could she see. She’s blind in sight so literally. Losing her senses every second the clock ticks. And, right now it is ticking… It’s going tick… tick… tick…
The ticks of the clock pointing to the passage of worthless struggle. It’s getting dark. But it gets dark every night. And it has been this way since so many nights now. She may not be even aware of it. However, it is getting dark. And it is that time, where she has to get up to turn on a light. Her muscles, bones, skin and mind, all against the idea of movement. However it doesn’t matter what she has to do. She will never be told to do anything. It’s not her duty neither her time. It’s the time of the next generation to worry about day and night.
Life passes so slowly for the old. She’s hungry, her stomach growls. But theirs nothing in the house, not a single ounce. Water is far off her reach. She has to get up. She will move. She is moving. She is now moving her legs slower than a sloth. Within the time she will take to stand on those legs, a normal person might be able to go fishing and back. Oh good, she is done. Now she is trying with all her might. Grabbing onto the sofa with so much power as if she feared she might fall down. More than the thought of falling burns her inside, the thought of the effort she will have to put in to get back up, kills her and scars her so deep. Everyday, every second of her life.
She is fearful, ‘ afraid, the day-to-day tasks have been battles for her soul. Her body is not even counted. She works out of habit and she moves out of memory. Her body is numb with pain. She doesn’t feel a thing. She sits here waiting everyday, for just someone, someone to help her, ask her, give her and feel her sorrow with her.
But no one arrives all day. The ones who do arrive the place with purpose of sleep. And she asks them politely, carefully and lovingly, more than love, out of fear of being let go. For this hour is the only hour of joy from the twenty-four in s day. When another living soul is around her. And she is free to say what she has to, or so she thinks and doesn’t implement. Her fear of letting go holds her back of saying a word. Her conscience doesn’t even realize her fears which have been buried and embossed so deep.
But she is thankful, for having her senses even though she has none. And out of memory of her habits, even though she had no real memories, she walks and talks. But fear has taken over her, the fear and fright that someday she might, be laying on these floors, covered in dust and dirt, and excreting in her pants, with not a soul to ask for a hand. Most days, she does this as a practice as she sits alone, in the eye of her mind she sees what could be worst and thanks her Lord for all the power she has left inside and is still able to use. For without it, she will be a dead body with a living breathing soul. Tired of her life, laying in a single place, day after day, waiting for none except the arms of death, imagining the warmth those arms will bring. And they will wrap around her cold, wrinkled, numb body. Tight enough, they will embrace her soul. Warm enough that she may be comforted. She will be relieved of this pain. And the ones who inflict will suffer again. With this thought she is able to breathe, those heavy painful dry breaths. She endures herself. And is always at the edge.
I Will Be Relieved…