Still means not moving

I’ve often wandered into this cave, hidden within the tree. I would flip the pages of periodicals I fancy and try to escape into the realms of the other world.

The one that brings no fear. Pity. Blame. Anger. Or guilt.

In between the lines, I’ll catch glimpses of hope. If it ever chooses to reveal itself, that is. We all have our stories and we all want to tell them our way.

But perfection, is an illusion. It makes us happy for that second. But one moment, is never enough. It creates yearning. Expectation. Then disappointment.

Like the waves that never stop crashing, even if no one has chosen the beach. Beneath the silent night, it will continue to sweep over the pure, white sand, which is an oxymoron in itself, as sand is never pure.

Give me some time to heal.

I won’t be better. But at least, I’ll be better now.

Sometimes, I too will forget that I’m the one who’s living. Sometimes, it feels like I’ve left. I can no longer find answers in her eyes, because she is looking elsewhere.

Some nights, I grasp on desperately onto memories of that night to remind me that it’s all in the past. That it’s okay. It’s okay now. I believe. I do believe that all things happen for a reason.

We were given pain, because we could take it. Or perhaps, we didn’t need him any more than a little girl halfway around the world would need her father. Every minute, every second, He has to choose. We are all His children. He loves each one of us in our own different way. But still, life makes Him choose. And one day, it’ll be our turn too.

Sooner or later. Sooner or later. Hear how this phrase rings true in your ears. There comes a time. Or when the time comes. Before night falls. After sunset. To infinity, and beyond. Time never leaves our space, and we too, never leaves it alone.

We say we never have enough. And yet, we never do enough to fill out this void. The emptiness we sometimes think we feel, but others don’t see. Who creates this, if not us?

Escape. Where do you run away to when you don’t want to listen to the world? For him, it was the Internet. Movies. Games. The unreal that has become a staple for the real. It saddens me to know the truth, but I dare not venture on it for long. It’ll only bring me anger. And already, I’ve been having trouble trying to get the flames to subside.

We are all lost. Some of us are drowning. Some others, just leave their arms flailing and grab onto the first human flesh they see. It is the butterfly effect, in transition. The metamorphosis of a curse that I hope I’ll never have to fix.

We are all broken. We are all in need. Nobody can hear us. And nobody should. It is time to think solely for ourselves. To grow up to be the family he’d wish us to be. He never said so. He never showed us so. But I know. She knows. And they know. They know. But they have not followed me out of these walls, these walls without windows. They still think Feng Shui exists for them. They still think they are the centre of the earth.

They still think it is about them. Like knowing that sickness have crept in, yet refusing to open the doors to hope.

I’m tired. I’m tired now.

Let’s move on. Let’s tear this page off. Let’s buy a new book. Or if you’d prefer, a new jacket sleeve. We’ll bring in the colour pencils. We’ll draw in daddy’s favourite colours – gold and green. We’ll connect the dots with lines from our circle of love. And we’ll never forget what a good life we’ve had.

Let’s move on. Let’s move on now.

Let’s live, like we should’ve lived countless years ago.

I’m holding out my hand, if you ever decide to take it.