The Story of Life
Mute the tunes to maintain the sacred silence of solitude
The drops of the liquid were flowing through the transparent pipes, penetrating in her veins. Just like the slow poison of solitude intoxicating her existence.
The beams of sunlight escaped through the blinds and illuminated the dull and damp atmosphere. Her eyes locked, to the ceiling where the paint chipped off at several points.
It’s just like my scrapped soul… she thought, smiling.
The shutters of her tired eyes suddenly dropped down, but the untamed horse of her thoughts kept racing.
Lying on the hospital bed her mind was wandering. The waves of her rebellious thoughts kept flowing, hitting against the sharp edges of the banks of her mind… bleeding inside… without colors.
The sound of the patients checking in and out of the ER was breaking the episodes of silence.
She opened her eyes at the beeping sound of her cell phone.
The tingling sensation of the needle had amplified but she held the device tightly in her hands as if never to let go.
Her fingers quickly moved, opening up the virtual epistle.
Glancing at the screen her eyes broadened. The visuals had made their way. The words were playing their cards.
“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.”
A drop of tear escaped from the barren lands. It was a moment of fear and trepidation… when a sharp light pierces through the darkness.
The voices in her head screamed.
“You are a precious gem cloistered inside your sanctified shell… Layer after layer enshrouded in your venerated gold cascade.
Never to be exposed, depleting grain by grain in your own nobleness.
Any breeze of fresh air is not allowed to pollute your thoughts.
No never.
All the tunes need to be muted to maintain the sacred silence of your solitude.”
Words can sometimes be so shocking she thought to herself. They possess the magical powers to heal and lacerate at the same time.
She sat up. The liquid in the drip had successfully made its way in her blood. The needle was removed but the pain stayed.
The rare drop of tear had disappeared in her face veil. The fingers once again swiftly moved over the screen to delete the manuscript.
Her existence had no space for company. Just like a lonely flower that blooms in the caves, her life was bound to be spent in isolation.
Adjusting her headscarf and her black cloak she rose up once again.
Once again… to lead a life of fake strength, loneliness, and silence, blocking all the tunes of comfort and bliss.
The car engine sparked as she inserted the keys. While the radio played the songs to her heart.
Is someone there, oh weeping heart? No, no one there.
Perhaps a traveler, but he will be on his way.
The night is spent, the dust of stars begins to scatter.
In the assembly halls, dream-filled lamps begin to waver.
Small streets sleep waiting by the thoroughfare.
Strange earth beclouds footprints of yesterday.
Snuff out the candles, put away the wine cup and flask.
Then lock your eyelids in this morning dusk.
For now, there’s no one, no one who will come here.
(Faiz Ahmed Faiz)
She smiled.
Yes! This was “The Story Of Her Life… and of Her Death.”
