I have closed one door permanently or at least I think it’s permanent.
Too terrified to knock, let alone have courage to open it.
A crimson, bloody door with strong hinges and hissing sound slipping beneath the space as life quickens itself by me or simply comes to a halt at times.
A ghost, it appears, had been living there. Old as a memory. I wish I could forget its existence but it’s my ghost; tailored to ignite my fears.
Don’t you just wanna smash it down and flee far away?
Memories, doubts, guilt, drowning sirens, insecurities, screams that never found a voice. All residing in one place. Probably, it’s not a single ghost. A cluster of dormant/dominant inhibitions posing as clowns and scaring the shit out of me. I need to learn how to swim out but I fail. So, I just stay there. Pretending that I’m swimming to the safest shore when in actuality I’m drowning. But then I’ve always been good at drowning. My soul being rarely lost, also being so thin to be felt in me.
I had been inhaling the fresh, sun-lit breezes. It’s lighter, breathable. Doesn’t accumulate its heaviness on my cheek. But the moment I’ll crack open that door its toxic smugness will going to invade my lungs, nauseate my yearly-added/practiced affirmations out, suffocate my manifestations, stifle the dreams, all because that ghost could thrive.
I cannot let that happen. I also cannot hold the door longer. It strains my neck, numbs my brain, prevents me from writing, prevents me from living.
Perhaps someone could help me. Perhaps not. You see about help- one has to be okay in asking it. You see, about help- rejection hurts more than punch in your guts. We, the topmost animal of the food-chain, the innocence-eaters, the egotistical beings only thrive when we stay afloat on the surface.
The drowning part is, however, subjective. Sometimes we prefer to die instead of holding their hands.
I feel mankind was doomed to begin with. They say the only time your age progresses is when you are a foetus and afterwards it only reduces. That implies we have had our graves readied since our births. And all this life we keep collecting different red doors, some miracles, some laughters, some mournings, some sunshine before nothingness decides to sit with us at the table and devours us.
©kanikachugh
