APART

 by Abraar

The night had all its meaning littered all over the emptiness of the room. There He sat folding a piece of paper with a pen in hand looking ahead of the darkness. He felt cold but his blood warmed apart. His feet felt dry and so also his hands both in noise and touch. A deep breath followed – then a sigh and all the veiled conscious points in him opened and again relaxed into obscurity.

Behind the tail of this particular day, the morning awoke with the sun piercing its rays through the window. The rays flashed across his shut lids and remained as such taunting the closed cover. He was root – stuck to his sheets, the duvet full to neck above him, while he kept his eyes close to himself apparently keeping away any chance to meet with a new day. The contrast tonight though he was awake and every bit of the night’s docile actions sprung conscious nerves in him. Rustling of the leaves outside felt like brush strokes through a dry afro. The generator coughs far across the street sounded like a dying motor engine pushing graciously to its destination. The simple thing of him touching the paper sheets with his pen along with the effortless cruise of the early night breeze felt like he was floating in air with nothing but a pen. It was a man though wide eyed who seemed aged in the solitude of his very own consciousness.

The morning and night had differing testaments to his approach to the conditions of the different times. The difference was fixed on ‘reject and accept’ dissolutions. He dissolved in rejection that a new day should come – with the aid of his lids and duvet. He was enmeshed in accepting the lot of the mini-ramblings of the night’s wandering dark feet. Yet, in the disparity of the two ends, there was a thin line of similarity. Yes, he was at one time telling the sun ‘please take back your skin’; at another letting the skin of the night lay on him. But, the ‘neglect and accept’ dissolutions were progenies of something deeper than the pictures of the man with the indecisiveness of his thoughts and actions. The pictures of a man in bed and also one with a pen. The pictures though if thoroughly exhumed would show that the man who felt the duvet was his savior and the rays should please lessen its tease on his eyelids- was in denial.

Also, the same man who was well aware of the rustling of the leaves outside his window and his breeze slippery slide on his skin was also in denial. The lids denied, the pen denied, his whole self denied and to the depths of his thoughts, he was in full denial. But, denial has breaks. Denial when masked at a long stretch will at one point break in edges in an attempt to accommodate something more temperate. So our man, this man through the whole day after walking the earth in denial sat at the tail end of the day with his pen and a piece of paper looking at how he could write out the thing he has fought all long to bloom – to accommodate something more temperate. The thing about him been broken from the bond of life. He wrote, finally in incongruent cursives (after tucking his defeated thoughts into reality) -

Mummy I will

you miss you

why! No!

God god hate –

While tears dotted the sheets and on encounter with ink, mode the cursives wilder in extensions. His mum died a day before. The news broke his fullness into an empty ring. The words caught a bit of what he felt and he expressed as such thoroughly wounded.