The Chronicle's End

“We’ve been trying,” he said in an almost inaudible voice that sounded to me as a hush, “to extend this since December,” but apparently to no avail.

 

The news came down to us roiling like raindrops from a thundercloud overhead that we know had been there all the while. We’ve seen this coming, only we could not tell when and what to do after.

And in one gloomy day, it all poured down upon us. From trickles, words came dropping one after another, whizzing pass us, piercing through our skin no matter how carefully uttered.  It was cold. We were still, cold and damp, mouths agape while struggling to find the right face.  

Should we smile because finally the days of uncertainties are over? That finally we are freed from the jail of dependence and handed-over convenience? Or should we tear because all of these, freely and cheerily given to you once before, are now taken back for good?

A cornucopia of emotions is starting to boil over. But there was no flower, nor fruit, only the goat’s face and his horn; his eyes jerking at me with mockery and disdain: “You wanted this all along, didn’t you?” he said. I wanted to say yes, but no, not right then.

Not at the moment when I see our big man’s face flushing, eyes welling damp that seems to me like crying. Not at the moment when I see him commanding back what seems to me like tears if not care or worries. 

Then, it was over. Our silent mouths were further sealed, greased by the oil from roasted pig and glass noodles.    

   

By and by, the sphere turned, it turned fast and faster until I could no longer breathe any more air. Suddenly, I found myself out somewhere, in the middle of bustling folks and bulging trains, caught in the kissing bumpers and struggling lingerers. I was on my feet, ready to run, to go hide and burrow my face in the comfort of homey solace. But I pushed back. I pulled myself together, my bed sheets, undone like since forever, I left them all behind.   

There is no recourse for the lazy, no resolve for the small and the needy. Every night, as like every morning then after, brings with it an ill temper and dying demurer and  right then, my memory takes me back to where I used to be—in my silent nook, brightly lit by prickly sun, decorated by moving wheels and metal bars.  I miss my drawers and the cockroaches that live with it. I miss the oven and the fridge; the silent room and doorman. 

Now, in the middle of the somewhere I found myself in are tales of endless dread, full of dark tangible proofs of the ‘would be’. I’m keeping my ground though. I’m soldiering on.  

Or at least, I’m trying. 

- Wind , 1.30.14/ 4.00PM