Wilted Words

Figuratively speaking, my mother is dead. In fact, she's been dead for a few years now, but it took me some time to see it. It started three years ago, when the flowers she grew on our balcony wilted. There wasn't a chance of reviving them then, just like her. I started paying more attention, and the death of her started to show more often, clearer and louder each time. A year ago she broke two eggs on th floor while making breakfast, she was never clumsy, and she didn't bother cleaning the mess up. A few weeks later everyone could see how turbid the water of her fish tank was. Apparently she couldn't notice, or worse yet, she didn't care. A few months later I got home from school and the first sound I heard was my baby brother crying his lungs out, my mother was just in the next room staring into an empty wall. It was things like that that confirmed my worries, but also how rare and crisp her smiles became, how loud the absence of the sound of her laugh is...

Seven billion people are living now on this planet, seven billion different faces, seven billion different voices, seven billion different experiences and hundred thousands different lessons learned each day. Although, there is one thing those seven billion people learn at some point in the life, it's the one thing that no one would doubt or argue, which is that life is  unfair. Some people beat others into this realisation, but they do realise it eventually. Watching the news is enough evidence. Or just waking down the streets of your small city would do. They stories you hear every day  of a mother losing her only child, and a kid losing both his parents, of two lovers who don't end up together or of a person yearning for love they can't have. Of dreams destroyed so often that you start to think that this is only way the world knows how to exist. Preying on its inhibitors as some kind of vengeance, as if it's reminding us to whom we owe our existence. Maybe the...

Like the way we started, we end. With words, dire, dry and cliche that maybe another thousands of people were saying the exact same words at the exact same time you were saying them. At first you tried to dance around, but I knew what was coming, even when I spent all that time convincing myself otherwise, I know it was all coming to an end. Maybe it was too good to be true. Maybe I had been delusional and optimistic, a combination of the most sweet yet poisonous things. Maybe I turned a blind side, not really looking, dazed by the idea of having it all, of having you. But I knew that it was unfair to you, to be dragged into something you don't want to be a part of. That's why I told you I understand, when you said that you don't want to live with half a heart.

I no longer tell them anything. I don't share my favorite songs or discuss my favorite movies with anyone. I don't suggest my favorite books either. because I know what it's like to share every part of yourself recklessly, that was before you. now I don't do that. it's like a bad habit that I kicked away. At first it made me a little uneasy to hide away like that, it was a bit tiring too. I didn't want to give an honest answer whenever they asked me what's wrong. I thought they would notice and assail me with questions, demanding answers that I don't have, but they didn't. and I was a little bit relieved that I don't have to go through that. I wasn't always in the mood to explain, after all, what should I say? how can I put it into words? How can I let them know that this is the only way I could pick myself up again? I can't fly with broken wings, and that's all I have for now, that's all I could manage, a pair of wo...