The sky’s overcast again. From a bright sunny morning, it is now filled with clouds. A day of promise turns into gloom.
But a day of promise?
I lack optimism, he smiled wryly as the thought hit him.
He has long forgotten what it was like to wake up feeling, no, appreciating how the new day has dawned and looking forward to what good it will bring to his life. The memory seems so distant that he thinks it never existed.
Waking up now means a day of dreary routine. All the hopes, ambitions and dreams that he held so close to his heart once are now like footnotes in font size 6 at the bottom of a page. They no longer take centrestage. Instead, they have been relegated to an obscure place and in their place, were just a jumble of words that mean nothing.
When there was once a thin sliver of hope, he now fights daily battles. Doing the right thing feels wrong, especially when he finds obstacle after obstacle in its way. His intentions, well-meaning, were trampled upon by legs belonging to beings who just didn’t like alternative perspectives. When the motivation is no longer there and that every step forward requires more bravery than he could muster, getting to the end of the day becomes a chore. Making a difference doesn’t apply to folks like him.
Stop being an idealist! You’re killing yourself, a voice screamed inside him. He couldn’t quite make out if it was screaming in injustice or mockery.
Everyone was wondering what happened to you.
Seven simple words appeared on the screen. He had no response to that because he didn’t know where to start. The damage was worse than he thought. He foolishly believed he could ride above all of that, like a warrior charging into the crowd of sword-wielding enemy soldiers. He thought he could ignore every slash on his arms, every cut on his legs and every bruise on his head. But now, over and above the wounds, his regret was amplified by the shouts of those who mocked him. At the end of it, he knew he was defeated by the mental and emotional exhaustion.
20 years of hurt, was a recurring thought in his head.
More than 7,300 days have passed and less than 10% of them were spent trying to find a way to heal the hurts. Telling himself that “tomorrow will be a better day” no longer worked by the 1,000th day. He wasn’t sure if telling people who cared about what he thought he would need to get better worked. They might flippantly dismiss his request or that they think he’s a little off the rockers. But what came his way were requests demanding more of him. He has given up trying to understand why it takes so much for someone to care.
Fixing someone who has been broken for decades won’t be an easy task. He was told it would be expensive. He told himself it would be traumatic for him to unravel all of them and put them back in their place. He would probably have to relive the voices and images of the haunting past before they can be exorcised. He would need something to take their place, something big enough to plug a hole that has been dug for the past 20 years.