The River

She walked barefoot all night, wondering if she would ever be stopped by anyone. One strap of her dress was slipping down her shoulder. The wind was merciless to the red chiffon fabric gently wrapped around her body.
The first hour it felt nice to be left alone, now it was terrifying.

Hours ago, she had left the party silently and unarmed, avoiding people to avoid questions. This hadn't been a happy day. She couldn't define a happy day and if she couldn't be happy even on this day, then would she ever be happy?

Every effort felt useless and worthless. To force a smile, a bitter laugh is hard when you're stomach is tied up in knots.
Everyone else, she thought, they were fooling themselves, The women were acting like they were on uppers with side effects; filled with delusions and morbid jealousy anytime their husbands talked to a woman other than themselves. As for the husbands, they were worthless pricks in suits with unbearable alcoholic breaths.

She thought about the man who escaped an asylum a few days back and how he froze to death. A life gone to waste. Maybe not a good one, but it was still a life.
Having her sanity intact, how much would she put up with before she gave up?

Explain to me, but don't trust in me that I will understand

She walked till she came to the bridge. From the bridge she looked down the river with the seven streams.

The streams were so strong and loud. The more she stared into the streams, the more her thoughts were silenced and dispersed into the water...

E.Y

The silent b

So the pain begins, nothing heals.
People are ecstatic, you are calm.
People live, you die inside.
Water flows, you remain dry.

Your deeds are invisible, they will crown someone else.

E.Y

A little piece of unreality.

A little piece of unreality keeps us sane in the evenings, in the darkness. To wish to be everywhere that you can't be, to kiss every man that's not good for you.

In a city of saints and and sinners, you choose to be with sinners and step into a bucket full of worms without hesitation. Anything to get you through the night, waking up with a headache that erases whatever that has happened.

You can keep a secret, right?

E.Y

Hush

What did I do? No, don't say.
Allow me to go through the different scenarios, the spoken and unspoken words.
The hours are tasteless when the tension and the spark in our worlds collide.

I gently beat myself around the bush from a truth I can't handle.

E.Y.

The missing photos.

I couldn't find them, the photos taken 3 years ago, from a trip I had been longing for all my life.
There were fifty seven of them. I can still remember every frame, every agony caused by the city of my dreams; the city of neon lights.

I was deceived by my delusional state of mind, not knowing what life was good for me. My soul was homeless and had no substitute for belonging. Every picture taken in every corner, from every angle, was coming back to me as the autumn of grief.

The bright colours appeared black and white with the shades blurred between fantasy and reality.

E.Y

You and me forever.

It was Saturday morning. She was picking up wet towels from the bathroom floor and throwing them in the laundry basket. Again and again, she was tidying up after vandals and plunders that call themselves a man. She resented it.

Lately, she had stopped singing in the shower and was deeply absorbed in thoughts. Certain things were like a bad hangover, you always wish you hadn't done it. But a weak moment always steers our actions and we always end up paying for it.
She should have ignored the calls and learnt from before. Whatever you gain, you lose more.

Besides the mess they created, they were always so damn hungry. She dreaded moving on to the kitchen and face the dirty dishes. She brought with her the morning paper, took a quick look at dirty dishes and made an "ack" sound before she sat down at the kitchen table with her wet hair hanging over her shoulders.

A front page article got her attention. "A woman died at the age of 94." it said. She started browsing through the article.
Who was this woman? "94 years old_rich_never married."
Rich,; why else would she make it to the front page? There was always something interesting about old Upper Manhattan women who sat on a fortune, but lived discreet lives.
How was it possible to have lived almost a century alone? There was something majestic about her posture in her picture, yet in contrast with her liberated smile. To come to terms with her own needs and desires and just embraced life the way it was.
However, there was glory in defeat?

After reading the article, she gets up from her chair, her slippers making scuff-scuff sounds as she walks towards the mirror to take a glance at her face which always seems so alienated in the mornings.
She stares at own reflection in the mirror; It's just you and me, forever baby.

E.Y.