Walking the Streets of Prague Without Her

0
1245

The breeze picks lightly on the loose strands slipping out of the high bun I squeezed my hair into. The cobbled pavement is a sheet of sandy toned blocks that spread wide as I take counted steps on it, feeling everything in a beautiful yet ugly clarity.

Bright hues of flowers punctuate my vision, seeping down from every window and balcony of the multi-colored buildings standing proud yet humble. Proud for having held for years, unscathed; humble due to their compromising colors that unite with one another despite the contrast.

When they say life is a rainbow of colors, they lie. Every soul has a base shade upon which they try to ink their lives with vibrant hues only to realize that the base shade dominates and leaks into all other colors of life. And more often than not, the foundation color is a shade of colorlessness, drenched in a complete black or a shade of it. Or simply, a sheet of white that is ready to stain itself with any color people throw at it and adopt its shade but only temporarily.

My foundation is black toned that is not ready to embrace any other, if there are any merry shades of happiness, they are only short-lived, as the dark takes over reminding me of the sorrow that suffocates my soul and penetrates all other things.

Never in my life had I thought to see anything apart from what my eyes see today, as I roam around the streets of Prague. My entire childhood is littered with memories of our screams, ricocheting across the semi-dark pavement, lit by a broken bulb or two. A few children from the neighborhood joined us usually, and we would sketch irregular boxes on the ground with a chalk and hop our ways on the chart that we had just drawn with great care and effort to ensure that the lines were straight.

Or we would run down the streets just trying to catch one another by the hand. At school, we’d continue the fight we would pick in the morning, but when anyone uttered a word against any of us, the other would immediately burst into flames. Such useless fights with no meanings had a norm in our lives and painted the entire canvas of our memories.

Of course, as a person grows up, he adds more memories to the palette, however, in our case, one of the childhood screams has been snuffed for a lifetime and the other scream echoes around aimlessly, trying to find an outlet or refuge but there is none. Her twinkling eyes are the only image left with me. As times passes, every image blurs at the borders, leaving the sharp edges of memories rounded. If there is anything that exists with certainty and breathes to grow in a massive block in my chest, it is the grudge and the grievance that I hold against the unfairness of life. I could have been the one, but life shut my sister’s heart once and for all.

LEAVE A REPLY