Dehydrated and willingly starving himself; his body resisting the anti-psychotic drugs. On his catheter time ticks to jarring measures. Many times he attempted to leap over to the unknown. But many times too, sadness sets in, perhaps, the only thing that’s reclaiming his heart back onto the world where he used to dream he’d be a doctor, a writer, a pilot, an equestrian, but alas, ending up being a mental painter of his own dream. It is in sadness that he allows himself a cut of the real, absorbing its apathy, its enormous silence over his past that he wished to turn to their knees and ask for his forgiveness. Then, his tears would make him a man again, and his children – in innocent awe over his lessons on sadness, on making sense of the world bearing down on their young minds, curiously, the only thing sustaining their hopes that one day their father would return home. The sooner the better. Some say, after sadness comes joy.
In sadness his memory creeps up on the surface of a still ocean– describing to me what is real to him – but staying afloat on the crest of an abruptly surging tide is struggling against a nightmare: no sooner the waves will separate my whisper to his ear from the colors of the sound only he could see. Not that happiness takes the place of sadness snatched away in the tide but rather a resounding break that forecloses any impression of sound from behind his wall. Then, he would be lost deep in his self, a changeless delirium, a maddening drive to cast away what he hears as noise persecuting him from further within. Someone must have whispered again to his ear:
“How can I forgive the world if I lose myself suddenly even before you did? Your feet knew this passage very well as many times your hands carried your weight through the lingering sands of time. It is time you are slowly losing, like my name, my age, my battle scars, even my own fears. I wish to tell you that I too am afraid that one day even my shadow would desert me. I sense it’s beginning to forget me too, accusing me of the gift of sin, plotting my own end. Then, I would fill in the shoes of those who have gone before me wandering without names, without potency, without a world, without sound, without content.”