Mind Traveling

 

Sometimes I feel I can time travel, or perhaps mind travel.

When I am standing in the shower, my body soaked in filth and wrath whilst my mind begins transitioning into a distant reality; I am unable to open my eyes.

I don’t know how to acknowledge my present: the monster which haunts me only in the dark. Its roars send ripples down my spine paving a path for doubts and fears which are almost unknown to me. My body is as shook as my soul, if not more. I have abused my flesh and tortured my physical existence in the past so as to be able to stop submitting to the emptiness inside my heart but now that my body and soul deteriorates at the same pace; how do I stop myself from hurting; bruising; scarring?
How do I stop a beating heart from decaying?

My eyes are still shut tight. No movement. The water is beginning to feel heavy on the bruises. Let me stay here for a little while longer. I wince. I smile. I submit to the incapability of being able to differentiate between the physical turmoil and emotional pain.
It will all go away’; the self-consolation takes over the lingering self-pity.

There are flashes, some vivid and some not so vivid. I was 8 just yesterday when both mum and dad used to clasp my hands so tight whilst crossing the road as if I’d slip through from between their fingers. I was 16 just yesterday and my dad didn’t believe that I needed to learn to tie my shoelaces with him around. I was 20 just yesterday when mom would stay awake late at night in a different time zone, waiting for me to return home.

Am I still soaked in wrath or is it guilt now? 

How can I take my raison d’être, who do everything in their power to protect me, for granted? The opportunities are washing off at my shore. The ticking clock only makes the stakes higher. I doubt my ability to make good decisions: for now, any decisions at all. How very convenient to excuse myself from a life brimming with why-nots instead of what-ifs. Checkmate.

My eyes are dry, and my heart is numb. I blink. My emotions are running high and my mind is playing games. I blink again adjusting to the yellow light in the bathroom. I bury my face in my wet palms and then gradually start moving my hands all the way to the back of my head until my arms are resting against my body. At this point, I need to insert a hypothetical full stop to my stubborn thoughts before I can shut the water off in the shower. This is how it ends, every single time. I silently moan as the present pulls and tugs at my flesh and bones.

I am alive on the outside, but I wonder if even an ounce of life is left in the smallest fragment of my existence.

Mother and Father even today protect me the same in whatever way they can, oblivious to my concurrent reality. Who is to tell them that it has been a while since the responsibility has been shifted and to tell the truth, I have done quite a shit job at it.

 

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