Blankness: A prose

One of the first signs of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die.

Franz Kafka, the author of metamorphosis had said that.

Today is his birthday. I don’t know if you’ve read that story, if you haven’t you might want to at some point.

Here’s a prose I wrote recently while pretty much doing the same things and feeling the same emotions as described in the piece.

Sitting here looking at the tranquility of the moment in front of me, as if there was a person posing a question at me, while at the same time waiting for my mouth to form some words eagerly as though the tranquility in itself was unbearably absurd!

I can hear my breath fusing with the air in front of me. I can live in a hundred different places at the same time with my eyes, closed or open. It doesn’t matter.

I am still breathing.

Sitting.

Staring at nowhere particular.

Alone.

But I feel a sensation, extremely intense and vivid in my eyes and heart and arms. I don’t know this feeling. I don’t know what it is. But I do know that it isn’t uncommon. It happens quite often lately.

My eyes feel a strong urge to force streams of tears out of my eyeballs. 

My eyes, they burn but I don’t know why.

I feel the need for a person. 

A person around whose arms I could wrap myself around.

And stay that way. Warm and comforting for a little while.

This person could be anyone, a mother, a sister, a lover, really anyone.

I feel the need of warmth. 

I freeze when I think about all the ways in which my loved ones have hurt me in the past.

I don’t know how to open myself to receiving love anymore.

I have been wronged so many times that my defense system always rings a burglar alarm in my ears when a stranger shows even the vaguest attempt at love/care/touch.

I know that I am too far from receiving love, the kind that doesn’t operate on commitments such as a relationship or contracts such as a marriage.

I am too far from having someone that’s as much free as I am.

Someone to whom I matter.

I really matter.

When I cry, I feel better. 

My therapist tells me it’s because crying causes emotional release but she doesn’t know how many times I’ve felt the urge to cry but I’ve terribly failed to 

What she also tells me is that giving love for PTSD survivors is a lot easier than receiving love. So is the case with me.

On days that I can cry, I end up not being as miserable as on those that I fail to.

My eyes burn.

My heart aches.

My body as though its weeping, calls for a gentle touch. Human touch.

I have curled myself around my dog many a times and it does feel good, but you see a dog can’t understand my words.

She can only listen. And she does that patiently.

On my dark and uncertain days, depression lingers around like wetness on a cold night;

as though it has a purpose, an innate mission to fulfill.

I crave for assurance maybe. 

That there’s someone who’s always going to be there.

Even when my world turns upside down.

Even when nothing else makes sense.

I want them to look into my eyes that’d soothe me instantly.

A child’s innocence.

A lover’s warmth.

A parent’s care.

A friend’s call.

I am still searching for the thing.

And perhaps I forever will. 

Because aren’t we the emotional, love  and shelter seeking animals who like to feel soaked in more amount of love than we can handle?

My heart’s heavy. I am almost crying. It’s heavy with love. Love for an unattainable thing. And also with longing. Longing for something that doesn’t exist. 

And yet haven’t I braved putting a happy face and going about life as though there really weren’t turbulent waters flowing inside me?

Written by Aditi @calm Insights!

Footnote

This was my first attempt at free writing style. Not that I don’t write them but that I don’t publish them being wary of whether readers would like it.

So do let me know if reading this piece made you feel something. Also consider buying me a coffee through the button down below to support what I do.

Strength and Love 💙

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