Once again, she was stuck in the same twinge of the hour – a dark, lonesome and gloomy night; which would automatically drag her into the atrocious past. There is no greater sorrow than to recall a happy time when miserable, and it was the throb which was constantly eating her; making her inside evern more grimmer, hollow and wispy. She was sitting in the same corner where she has been always shedding tears over the yearn of her chest and chaos inside her fragile soul. When you don’t know the way your ball of fate will rotate and face the ruin, it is venial. But when you’ve experienced the harsh face of the wind, the sheer fall of the luck and even then, the slip continues, you are cursed. Yes, she was cursed. She knew it; she very well understood the reason of her languish, her disquiet, her ruefulness and all that kept on freezing her ending up in a state of apathy. But she continued to upheld the same misery, the very usual grizzle and the nerve piercing boohoo.
There were two roads infront of her and she ought to go on the third one. The reminiscence she had were constantly pricking her already torn spirit. It was a burden upon her, upon her conscience; the touches, the flashes from the past, the desolate sighs, the woes: everything was just pushing her even more deeper into this well of despair. How often it happens when all you’ve is just a pile of regrets, a plethora of repents and a whole lot sorrows? She wasted a whole part of her lifetime in a wrong thing, in an amiss work system and in something which earned her nothing but regrets and sighs. The realization of this fact pinched her every second, killing her scruples and letting her to be devoured by her guilt. There was no remedy, no solution, nothing at all to be done. There was no way to colligate the broken pieces.There was no solace to be able to soothen the bashed flesh. There was no room to retrace the moments back where she could find a pause, a break, a mo at its very least; to solve the intricate puzzle, to find the unleashed mystery and to put in order, her very jumbled up being.
Now, she was crying, just as the poor women do over the parting of leaves from the trees in the gloomy autumn. She was repenting for her negligence. Debris to the debris and ashes to meet the ashes, was that all? There is no real silence. It contains all the sounds, syllables, memories and language. Only, you can not hear it. But, the inside of her lifeless lump was quieten. It had such an eternal silence where screams sounded silent too. She was in a strange obliviousness. She cried, piped, exipated but she was stuck in that net which stings so deeply that the wounds get crummy at the end.
She was baffled. Her being; foiled. She met the down falls, the gusts of hard luck and all the wretchednesses but she didn’t learn from the filth of her memoirs and the dirt of her past. She kept on moving on the same road, the end of which was a sheer steep; she was ought to be descended. And once again the cycle of her snivel would repeat.The verses echoing in her head were making the whirling world stand still. They were telling the unutterable. Silences and nights were turned into words. She depleted her time at a wrong junction, in a misfit hour and her being, in all that was unimportant. Left empty handed, she was standing at the high cliff and the ice beneath her feet was melting; ramming her into a wide sea of many droplets and that too, all of failures. For there is a throb in every glee, and a regret in the coming glum.There is a sigh in desolate woes and a smile in silent speech. Happiness is only a flicker of melted ice but in her void enduring, it was nothing but a little spark and that too, of the lifetime which ought to be ended in a sudden holler.
Life turns terrible when mixed up with hope and despair. So was the one she living. The poison of despair was making her feel a lump in her throat every time she breathed. An unknown burden upon the bruised SHE. The poison was haunting her, blowing out the fire via her hollow eyes. Silent and starving, she prowl through the streets of her past and once again wept. A lot of unacomplished dreams died where will was too weak to be used, so was hers. The will within her died long ago. Hope puffed away. And while standing in such a dark spot, the rays of faith were enshrouded too, to fall upon her.
This was all her flimsy being about. But, in her life, nothing was going to happen. Every door was bolted. She was burried in the grave of expiates. The termites of rues were eating her up and all she was upto be a helpless victim. Suffering silently. Suffocated. Exhausted. And doleful.
Could you listen her feeble squalls? Could you see her pseudo simpers? Could you feel her shuddery chilliness? Could you sense her pangs, the slits of her face made by the blows of that tough luck and all the agonies she would take in? NO. You couldn’t. You never did. For she was the one duped by the fate. She was a sufferer. She was a failure. The one who crushed herself intentionally. An anathemised lifeless lump. A loser. A miserable belle of stained guilt. A ceased yet very stormed chaos.
SHE WAS, BUT A LIVING DEAD.
A life brought to end by miseries, bad luck, poison, hatred and all the losings. Not a zombie but a fate stricken fille whose being was drowned in her own tears. Who burnt all the boats and ended up at the end which aimed into failures.