Soul of a Wordsmith
XXV/XII/MCMLXXVII - V/II/MMXVI
Its all black. Pitch. No sight. No smell. No sound. Can’t feel anything. Can’t taste anything. Don’t know where you are. Don’t know who you are. Don’t know what you are. Nothing is responding. Nothing is working. Numbness in all its purity.
Then suddenly you’re overwhelmed with every single emotion you’ve ever felt in your life. From love to hate, from itchy to ticklish then suddenly your cold, in pain, alone. You started moving, you don’t know where you going. You just start moving. Then it grips you and drags your under.
You can’t breathe. You’re trapped under a weight you’ve never experienced before and you can’t get out from. You gasp for air but all that fills your lungs is a cold feeling that freezes your heart. Your heart hardens with each breath it starts to hurt each time you breathe and slowly you can feel it chipping away with each beat. You try to swim up but each movement feels like you’re being grated. Then it stops.
Your numb again.
You slowly get up and just before you straighten your legs it grabs you again but this time you’re in a furnace. You feel yourself burning watching helplessly as your body gets singed, cooked, burned right before you eyes. You want to scream but you know it won’t change a damn thing. All you can do is silently panic. No one can hear. No one can save you.
You look around you and although you don’t know what’s happening you know something is terribly wrong. Something is-
It came out of nowhere. It stings as it lands on your body. Its not the pain you’re expecting from rain. This pain is worse. You look at your abused body and soon it hits you. Its not rain. Its acid. Each drop eating away at you with no mercy. Then you see it.
You see what’s wrong.
You realize what it was.
Something is missing.
Ripped away from you buy a jagged blade. The blood has dried and cooked from the flames and is now being eaten away by the acid. This wound is different from the ones you have now. This one seemed to be root of your pain.
You stare in silence. You’ve given all you can. Your pain was silenced by the numbness. Your tears dried out as you drowned during your first round. Your vocal chords burned in the furnace and now you can’t scream. Your blood has been polluted by the acid, you can’t even bleed anymore.
What do you give this wound, The trigger of your agony?
It’s gonna leave a nasty scar. All your friends, enemies, acquaintances will see it. They all see your wound. Your missing part. They just don’t understand what you went through when it was taken from you. They don’t understand you relive through the torture each second of your life. You’re handicapped. They see your limp, but they don’t feel the pain that goes with it. There’s nothing you can do to make it easier. You just have to get stronger
. . . so don’t ask me if I’m ok. I’m fucked up. I just don’t show it.