Whenever I am cold, I drown myself in steaming water. It’s been a year, and the water has smoked every single day. I slowly realized the cold had settled deep inside, in a crevice, spewing numbing chills. I get myself out of bed every day. Somehow. I finish my daily ritual and return home from work, walking.
The streets are empty today. Sodium vapour lamps throw scattered yellow light at intervals. I stand under one of those lights. A major portion of the lamp has been covered by a beehive. I can see the bees buzzing about, toiling endlessly for their queen, a veil of purpose pulled over their eyes.
I am living my life in silhouettes, fading and emerging in these hissing yellow streetlights. A solitary draft stings my cheeks and arms, beckoning my cold insides. It is peaceful, or so it seems.
I reach home. Turning the key in the lock, I feel a sense of apprehension. Of what lies behind the doors. I enter.
A year ago, it was different. I used to live alone. I still do. But it was different.
A shimmering, dark blanket creeps itself slowly around my shoulder. Really slowly, tenderly. I don’t even feel it holding my throat in an innocuous grasp. I can breathe, for sure. But I can feel it, I can feel the pores of my body filling with sparkling, blue ice.
I lie down on the carpet, wrapping it around myself. That was my futile effort to ward off the specter sucking my body lifeless. A few hours later, the blanket is gone, but the room is still heavy, waiting to pounce upon me. I can hear crickets now, their harmonious chatter giving me something to hold on to.
The heart is weak. It loves clinging to things, materialistic expressions, even when they are nothing but illusions of nature.
“It gets better.”
“Lighter days are ahead.”
“Don’t lose hope. Hang in there.”
Let me tell you, it doesn’t get better. And even if it does, it’s temporary.
Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope is an intensely fragile thing. Hope is utterly faithless.
An abyss you ought not look into. Because if you do, it might not turn out to be a ray of sunshine but an endless tunnel. A darkness so black that there is no turning back.
What has to go wrong will go wrong. One has no choice but to accept it. That way, the delusion of hope burns out its own existence.
I gather my freezing knots into my body and turn on the light. It makes no difference to me anymore.
I am not a slave to hope.
I am a slave of my own being, lost forever in memories and pages.