(Plausible Deniability)

I never thought I’d write about myself in past tense or present tense, if it never meant writing my memoir.

One day you’re this little kid with the prettiest smile; living in a big house; your mom and dad still in love like they met yesterday.
So they buy you a bicycle; for its the right thing to desire when you’re young. To have things that other kids only dream of.
Then, one day you ride on the wrong lane; and the driver of a mean truck, with a stick of cigarette dancing between his lips; runs over you. Inside the house suddenly everything stands still, even the air breathed. Mom races from the kitchen through the living room, almost screaming yet not alarmed, “Where’s Troy?” As fickle, as tiny, as young as you are; pieces of you embed on the metallic ride you own.

Or rather you’re this guy resting with a diary; sitting on a large rock basking in the sun rays wising away time. For its the right thing to do whence it has rained in the afternoon, and the cascades of sun rays beams from the curtails of the clouds. The rainbow of it, is amusingly beautiful. Till, a dark cloud pastes itself on the sight of the sun. A storm unraveling. That’s when dark days begin. You’re left asking yourself, “why me?”

Ghosts, demons, bad things; the past creeps beneath the ground I walk. With a snap they tore me a part expeditiously. Life weighs me down; when everyone thinks that there’s some beauty in having hope; that there’s faith in believing; everyone expects me to be strong when they got no idea what it feels like for a mother to carry the pieces of her son’s meat with bare hands; blood drips. Smile fades. Dirges sung.screaming, yelping for help with a lifeless 3 year old minced.

More than once I have monologues. Asking my inner self, “hey self, are you alive inside?”

They expect me to forget; to move on; This electric train has no terminal. It races like speed-bikes; jumping is suicidal. Or that I might tempt. They expect me to enjoy life; to live by the light and blossom from a flower into a fruit. But my shade is a lot darker. What am I to live for when I’m dead inside?

You are still young alright. But life has given you maturity when you never heed for it. Silence depression makes you tarnish, like wooden roof coated with dust, cobwebs hang on its emblem; such you are. You’re lot more stronger than you look. So I gathered the tinniest of courage left, packed it in my bag and opted for a French leave. Never to resurface. 

We all have suffered losses; even the tiny bits whence you watch your favorite hen get slaughtered. Remorseful, yet you delve in its soup. But my loss is far much great; I try to find solutions but it lies in ending thy existence. I search for answers, but Kendrick reminds me its human nature to search for answers even whence there’s none.

So here I am. Breaking loose; growing numb to a life that was promised to be abundantly beautiful. Here I am giving up, ending my existence. There you are, wishing that I stay alive.  You don’t understand. 

Too late; just dead inside.

******
As written by 

Phill Ibsen

(Master Of Descriptions)

©Heart_Art_Poetics