Death is not black, it is every shade of pink. It starts with a feeling of being high. High on an idea. A misconception. Death is a burst of color, every hue of happy. It overtakes your every thought, every breath, every beat. Death is love in disguise. It is everything we thought we wanted or presumed we needed, but time heals everything. Time reveals the reality of everything. Death can only fool us for oh so long, but here I am facing death. My pink death, my rose form of grief. Nothing is harder than grieving someone who is alive, ending a life -even if only in your mind- is a burden. A heavy burden. I can proudly say that at 18 I surpassed this. I have grieved my pink and I have made it past every cherry blossom out there. I can stare death blankly without fidgeting. I have withdrawn the hue of pink I thought was its’. It is now black, just like every other minuscule death that is of no value.
"The past is a place of reference not a place of residence" this is a sentence I have to constantly remind myself. It is okay to look back to ponder then proceed, it is life nothing more, as tough and as complicated as it can get. That being said; I never choose to revisit the past, I cannot decide whether it is due to fear or rather being past the past. I choose to deem it as acceptance, that it is a chapter of history I can learn from but should never mourn upon, although I usually choose the route of not looking back. January 5th 2024, Friday, was one of those extremely rare days that I sensed I was sent through a time capsule, 8 years back, early 2015 to be exact. As I heard the sound of the war-crafts bolting through the serene blue sky of Sanaa, I was triggered. My first reaction was to run holding my head down, waiting for my home to come crumbing down to the ground. My rapid processing mechanism was concluding that Saudi is back at bombarding us, in sequence with th...
Very poetic writing, very moving.
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