I opened my eyes and found myself swimming in a pool of sorrow. How do tears fall without one’s knowing, in one’s sleep? How deep must the pain be for something like this to happen? I don’t stir, amazed and frightened by the wetness of salt. I tell my hand to move but it lies stubbornly on the pillow, inches from my face, reluctant to feel alive. “She doesn’t love you anymore….” The wetness moves inwards as I close my eyes.
I’m staring at the ceiling. I don’t remember when I rolled on to my back. Or when my eyes opened. Or how long I had been watching the fan. Or how the rivers of sadness had carved their route from eyes to ears. A steady stream. Unceasing. I weakly asked the mind to build a dam, stop the flow. But the mind only listens to the strong. That is the law. “She doesn’t love you anymore….” I closed my eyes keeping the wetness within.
The leaves look fresh and green. Surprising since I haven’t watered them for two days. Surviving against all odds. Both the plants and I. I’m lying on my side, staring into the balcony. I don’t know when I turned. Maybe it was the pain in my back for being motionless too long. I’m motionless because if I move or if I take in a breath too deep or too strong, it nudges my heart. And in its wakefulness, the heart cramps. And with the pain of the cramp, it cries. And with its crying, my body heaves. And with my body heaving, the wetness turns inside out. “She doesn’t love you anymore….” Maybe that is why the leaves look fresh. I see them through the dew of sorrow that hangs upon my being.
I crawl downstairs. Stumbling drunkenly. Reluctantly. One step at a time. Pause. Another step. Each movement shocks the heart. It realises it’s still alive. Despite such odds. At some point the effort is too much. I stop midway and sit. On a step. Caught between two worlds. One below, the other above. The mind is beginning to tire of being caged in a body of weakness. It stirs. And tells me to get a grip. I get a grip. I grip the wall. And make my way to the world below. The mind told me to get a grip. But forgot to send me the strength to grip with. “She doesn’t love you anymore….” It’s only obvious to fall downwards. That’s gravity for you. Sorrow has a gravity too. It weighs you down, dragging you under its weight. I reach the last step. And sit. And wait for something to happen next while the rivers of sadness form tiny tributaries around my feet.
The neck has been bent for too long. It hurts. So I look up and stare at the Frames. I ask Them – why? Why would you do this? Even through my numbness I’m shocked at my audacity to question the Gods. But I’m also fearless. When you lose what you love most, you give a hang what happens to you next. Let them cast a spear into my heart. I feel defiant. You’ve done Your worst. Now what more can You do? So take this life, for it is of no use, to me or to You. But tell me why You would do this? Why would You send her to me only to take her back? There’s a lesson in it – I know there is. You tell me so each time. And I almost always grasp it. But this time, I find I can’t. I cannot see clearly for my eyes are drowning. As is my heart. “She doesn’t love you anymore….” You told me I could defy the old law. You told me I had the makings of a Hero. You saw the potential and prepared me. And today, I failed the test. It seems I am only human. Weak and frail and heartbroken. I look away from the Frames. I close my eyes. The neck falls. The pain is welcome.
It’s been hours. Or days. I don’t know. I’m too tired. To think. To move. To breathe. Everything hurts. Internally, externally. The pain of sorrow is now physical. It throbs in every muscle. I can’t escape it. And it doesn’t try and escape me. When I close my eyes, they burn as if lit coals were placed inside. So I open them and liquid salt gushes from unknown depths, quashing the heat and blaze. At some point the source runs dry and once more I close them only to wrench them open again… on and on and on… is there no end? “She doesn’t love you anymore….” No. She doesn’t. But does that mean I should love myself no more either? Have I lost the love for self? Have I no dignity of my own? Have I no other aim in life but to be destroyed by the whims of another? Did the Frames not teach me anything? Did They not say there is meaning in each curve and line?
My eyes are slits. But dry. I look around me. Absorb all I see. It’s all the same. My world inside shook and trembled and turned upon itself. A mighty earthquake which destroyed me inside. And now I look around me and not a sign of destruction meets my gaze. Nothing has moved except the hands on the clock. 24 hours. I had willed death. I had effectively died for 24 hours. And been resurrected. What for? How? I don’t know. She doesn’t love me anymore. Ok. Accepted. But I loved her. And that was enough for both of us. Now it’s time to water the plants because too much salt kills. And a dead plant is of use to no one.