Jordan Whitt | Unsplash

I run in circles, hop a little, jump a little and dodge wet pools off my way. I run, I jump up high, attempting to catch hold of an unruly reaper string. I seem to lose balance suddenly. I stop. I try to steady myself, but in vain. I nearly save my skin from getting scathed on the forest earth, playing all by myself.

I stand, silently. Only, the silence is deafening and scary. I don’t know where to look or what to look out for. I take a deep breath. I run inside — only to be followed by the deafening silence. I breathe the electronic air and listen to highly potent static. It is no more silent. I feel it. I am supposed to be running away, not into it. But I run, I run forward and into it. Inside the room. I huff and pant, unable to gauge what I am running from. Then, I see it, the mosaic beneath me trembling, the mahogany shelves cracking and the doors creaking. The walls shattering terribly to reveal powdered red bricks falling off its weighing sides. I hold on to the strongest pillar in my room, but in vain.

Mother earth was kind enough to not let me die in the debris when I was five.