There is nothing to say.
The wind blows from the north. There is this thing in the heart that makes me look left and right before crossing the boundaries of life; this same terrible thing forces me to look back and plant a seed of doubt.
Is this right. Is this wrong. Am I a good child. A competent human being. What am I doing here.
12th July is my birthday, and I stand on the scale of time, anxious by the countdown. I look left and right and under myself. Where is my past. Where is the future. Covering my ears and clawing at my eyes, I do not wish to know what others are doing. Why are they happy. Why are they successful. Tell me, what is sorrow like.
Are my emotions the same as yours. Why is yellow the colour of sadness. Why can’t I wear these shoes that I like. Am I being disowned for this coat that I wish to wear. How can my eating routine make me a horrible child. These reasonings which I fail to understand, do they make me less human than everybody else.
The wind blows from the east. There is a rot in the bark of this tree. Here is a sour smell on my hand from the sweaty iron rail. I imagine the shine on the gun aimed at my head, a silver bullet that plunges through my mother’s heart. There is a kitchen knife and so much blood; I stand over my sister’s body and screams. What is life and what is that other thing. Where is the meaning of me. I scrape my nails across my skin, hoping the answers would appear.
There is only blood.
I leave a pink razor at the hotel beside a half-used bottle of shampoo and board a plane back home. I hate the smell of the complimentary bar soap.
Laughing with the man who I call father, who screams at me in the car. He pays for my tuition. I pretend to listen to him. Someone like me does not understand pride, or ego, or dignity, but the thin line of my mouth and my clenched fists understand ingratitude very well. Is this childishness, am I being stubborn, or just a horrible human being.
I am content with wondering; the answers never make sense.
The wind blows from the south, but I do not feel it. My eyes have stopped working, my ears can no longer hear. If there is life in this shrivelled heart and reason in this empty skull, I can no longer understand them. The corpse that lies on the pavement is cremated by the sun.
I am rotting with empathy.