Aftermath

I remember waking up to my wave-like vision, to perceiving the world in a bluish-green tint, to the burning in my chest being unstoppable and unbearably painful. To loud cries and gasps, because my body was exhausted and couldn’t take it anymore. But it was too late, all had been absorbed into the vitals that once gave my body life.

I once thought my clouded mind was hyperbolised; it was until that evening, until I felt numb to the point of my feet stumbling and my words stuttering. To clawing my way around and wallowing, because a part of me was hurting tremendously. I still don’t know what it was.

All I could do was lie there, squinting in warm tears at the green world. The world – my window, the view in which I could never ever see the colours of the sky. Desperation and unattended yearn lingered around the room with artificial life, one that took whatever colour was given to it.

Where are nature’s colours?

–

It’s that air again, but more bitter, more disconcerting.

Perhaps it’s the isolation, or the fact that the day is alive and yet I am not.

The wind is cool and somehow these lasting skies allowed the troposphere to give way to the seeping sunlight. They, for once, greeted me kindly. The heat that glazed over my clothed back felt welcoming, enough to divert my attention away from the vigorous writing into my cold notebook.

These lasting skies were telling me that life was beautiful; the faceless clouds were lively, I could almost hear their mellow voices. Nothing feels real, it’s as if my eyes were being deceived, even though my hands could feel the grittiness of the ground. The ground felt perfect, the view was perfect, but it was too dreamlike. There are several people here, possessing a presence so light that they evaporate into thin air. I no longer see them, and they don’t matter. Though physically present, this stagnant beauty seems to be an illusion in my mind. If this was reality, then why does it feel so distant?

The view was always particular on days like these – unfathomably beautiful. But everything you want but can’t have is beautiful. Its elusiveness made moments like these rare and temporary; like seeing your first glimpse of light, like breathing fresh air and finally stepping onto concrete ground, except your hands are tied and you’re being led someplace else. You’ll always glance but without a chance to savour.

Though I am sat in the only place I love, I feel that this is no longer where I belong. Though I am sat in front of the gentle waves and the contrasting landscape between nature and infrastructure, I feel that they are also malicious, ready to scare away their intruder once this session of comfort is fed.

Upon the many days and nights that I’ve made my presence here known, today was first time the bond had been broken.

But no matter, this place is empty with my presence. I take steps away, savouring every breath, every intake of the musk of burning concrete that only this little place can compose. This little place – my home; the place in which that same warm ground had been stepped on by my 6-year-old feet, on a Friday afternoon when I’d pace away from the footpaths to my school.

Everyday for 12 years, until now, when I officially turn away.

I can’t have this, and it is no longer mine.

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