Whispers

I feel relieved today. Perhaps, the waves that are crashing on the seashore look at me with comfort and isolation as I sit here with my untied shoes and pale legs in withering epiphanies of what could have been a better way to come at the beach today. Perhaps my backpack could have stayed home, perhaps my hair could have flown slightly in the other direction. Perhaps the waves could have erased the little sand name I wrote but it didn’t. Maybe it realized the necessity of fragile validation for me and stepped away. As the waves crash in themselves with moon’s dangling effect terming brevity a scoundrel for its existence somewhere among false lowlands in the middle of nowhere, a brush of fresh air hurries my eyes to the portrait of strangers enjoying the beachy light as it is while I imagine a hummingbird resting across my arm and smiling at me. 

The silence of the sound of waves cools the lack of feeling I feel everyday. Maybe that is why I feel like a liar whenever I even use the word feel around anything anymore. The numbness with shredded hourglass sprinkled all over the liberty-flavored diet and euphoria-flavored time I consume only to let out a monstrosity of nothingness screaming at the top of my lungs, maybe being a rusted scissor thrown someplace with water droplets all around it has a better purpose at being purposeful than I do this very moment. That’s why I am relieved. I exist. In my pens and papers, I existed all along the undrawn lines and untouched pens because somewhere the sanctimonious withdrawal of the self seemed like the right thing to do. Empty pages and never-opened pens have stories too. Stories of deprivation, of cowardice, stories of me. 

And amidst the colorful lines of laughter I can see zillions of meters away, my zebra-stranded shirt reminds me of the hollow eyes I have fed myself to account for lifelessness and monotonicity in a whirlpool of rainbow infused metaphors and designs. My question to the dear hummingbird beside me: How can you be so beautifully oblivious? Voices and sonnets, and voids and resonance, how can I account for the silence that is so loud it seems to magnify the effortlessness of being a dry post it note longing for an adhesive to hold on to the walls of my own beliefs. Can I even exist without being a being anymore? And these waves – let me tell you – these waves wash off the weight of existence without even letting me feel them anymore. Just in the plain sight of it, in the soft storm of it, in the intense breeze of it, and in the deepest trenches of it, it calls me. It calls me the way ice melts so profusely dominantly on a sunny day; it calls me the way the heavy snow tranquilizes the weather with suffocation on a winter morning; it calls me as if it is made for just that. But I can’t go. Not today.  

 

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