The one who listens

A desperate move for a mere gasp of air –

moving, struggling, stumbling, falling

‘Why is it so dark? Why am I alone?

Can’t you see me? Can’t you hear me?’

Yet she doesn’t see herself, she doesn’t hear herself

A habit that has become the chain to her throat, to her heart, to herself

‘How do I get rid of it? Please help me -‘

‘But I thought that is what you wanted – didn’t you put it on yourself?’

‘Yes… but … maybe I did so,

so that I could find someone else to rescue me from it.

Maybe I was expecting someone to stop it all this time.

Yet nobody came, nobody saw me, nobody heard me.

And I had to keep it, for nobody else would take it and someone had to. ‘

‘You foolish little girl – it was and still is your choice. I’m sorry.’

And so she still gasps for more air

The water slowly and silently ripples around her throat

mocking her,

just enough to let her see the blue sky above her head and let her know it is there

just enough to let her taste the fresh gust of air that others are enjoying from their floating boat

Her hand reaches out,

yet her instict tells her not to hold on to anyone’s hand

Because although they are floating and comfortably sitting,

their eyes look so sad

their look seems so full of stories they want to tell

And so she inhales as much as possible and goes back into the deep blue sea

to look for their stories, to carefully hold the reflection of their eyes in her small white hands

And so she falls, stumbling, struggling, moving.

Because, what is the use, it is already too late and she is already there, at the bottom,

and now she is so used to the pain, loss and invisibility that she would not know what else to do.

Yet, her hands are tempted to let go of these stories from time to time,

there is a glint of story in her eyes too,

but she is one among so many – it wouldn’t be right, would it?

Someone had to do it,

someone has to do it.

So she made her choice,

I made my choice.


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