My mind is scattered mist, pregnant with thoughts that swarm around like bees confused when their beehive is disturbed. I am trying to make sense of this random buzz of thoughts in knots in my mind. But the knots are not willing to cooperate and come undone. For, when the thoughts make sense, organized in drawers, the mind makes sense and with it life makes sense; in the least feigning some sense into living.
But my thoughts don’t know any boundaries of order or organization. They lie atop one another, pressing, pushing, and shoving, leaving no sense of what to feel and how to feel.
The ocean’s breeze is a cool whisper in the dark blanket of the night that gives some strange feeling of comfort, as if warmly draping a blanket of familiarity over me that hugs me just right. It is more like the darkness in the night that is a mirror to my soul, which feels plunged in the lonely black.
Waves crush against one another in a mad frenzy to kiss the shore, as if it would give it life, but that is just a sad mermaid’s expectation from the world above her who assumes that the sand, where life survives, is a place that will give her love and caress her with warmth. Little do the waves know, like scant does the pretty mermaid know that the deep cold in the bottom of the ocean is although dark yet it is safe. And this is also the place where a suffocated soul like mine wants to breath again. The body might sink but at least the soul will rest in peace.
I take a deep breath, I tried this once before too but the shining sun made me feel exposed and I failed to take my own life. But now the breeze hits my back, slowly pushing me toward my final, fatal destiny. The night is the perfect cover and the note I left behind, on my desk will tell my parents what happened to me so they would not have to pursue a useless search for my dead body.
But I bet they won’t even have the time to look for me or notice my disappearance until after the passage of a few days; they’d be just so consumed in their own fights. They always have been, unaware of what their only child feels when she sees her parents, who loved each other so much, quarrel like maniacs, once or twice it has even crossed the limits of word wars and ended up in physical assaults, pushing and crushing, all scratches and bruises, no dignitary and tumbled respects.
One of them drinks herself to sleep, while the other spends the nights out. And then they say when love leaves the gem of the heart; it leaves a cracked, rotten stone in its stead. Indeed it does, as it has done to me. The love that my parents couldn’t give me has left a vacant hollow inside me and they will regret it when they lose me to the sea.
