Torches of freedom

The lake was deep and it only got deeper as you looked. You could see the reflection of your own eyes and would stare until you saw your own mother's eyes. 

And that sight alone was too much for me. Too much for who I am. I can be a smoker instead. Much simpler. I can dedicate my life to giving up on something and no one would bat an eye. Much easier if you ask me. 

I stare into the visions and glimmer of my lit up cigarette reflecting on the blue wet glass. 

I am not ready to go back to the funeral. And even if I was, I wouldn't want to. The smell is drilled into my own brain. Everything; every heart smells rotten. I can't smell my own blood when I scrape my knees or get a cut. I can only tell since my mom starts crying every time she sees me like that. 

It is not surprising that I always have to smoke. I can't bear seeing anything else other than the thick fog of my heart. It's a sight I'm rather used to. However, I won't get used to seeing a kid dead. It's one among many. But it's this thought, that there are many other undistinguishable faces that never saw more than the beauty of this world that terrified me. 

The lake always brought me solace. It was like a memory I never had. It just kept me looking at it, trying to remember it. Its tranquil waters held a sense of familiarity, a feeling of home that I couldn't quite place. As I stood on the shore, gazing out at the shimmering expanse, I felt a longing stirring within me, a desire to disappear into knowledge.

For as long as I could remember, the lake had been a constant presence in my life. I would often come here to escape the chaos of my head, to lose myself in the timeless beauty of nature. Birds died and babies swallowed their teeth, but my blue mirror never broke.

And so, with a sense of warmth kept me together for many years. This puddle of an ocean drop gave me hope. Hope that one day, everything I need will be at the very bottom. And that day will come when I will have no use of any wish or porcelain. I will only need a bed.

I remembered the countless hours spent exploring the shoreline, the laughter and joy. I remembered the feel of the breeze against my skin, the sound of birdsong echoing through the trees. And most of all, I remembered the sense of belonging that I found here, a sense of peace that I had never known anywhere else. All my heart did was listen closely and my head was silenced by its shame.

But amidst the memories, there was a sense of loss, a feeling of sadness that tugged at my heartstrings. For as much as I cherished the time spent by the lake, there were moments of pain and sorrow that I couldn't forget. 

And yet, despite the pain, there was still hope. For the lake, with its timeless beauty and its silent depths, was a reminder that life was a tunnel with no end, but with many corners. Towards the end your walk is slower because you know you don't have much to hurry for. But when you are younger, you grit your teeth and run, forgetting your feet behind.

As I stood there, lost in thought, I felt a sense of gratitude welling up within me. Gratitude for the moments shared, for the memories made. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, I silently vowed to myself that as long as water flowed, I will live. Roses may be pink and other times they may drown. But I will be there to see them.

And as I turned away from the lake, I felt as if I was turning away from myself. But the smoke came back. Like a blanket hanging on a dog's tail. Always there. I swallowed tears so I wouldn't feel the burn of all these thoughts on my heart. I try to keep my mouth closed as much as possible. I feel my heart will crawl out otherwise, sick of my noise. Only the dead are not bothered by it. 

I took this job as of recently. It's good money and not many people are willing to put up with the smell and the angry family members. They are often willing to take your eyes out and plate them with cheese, like grapes. Just feasting on them like some sort of revenge that you touched their loved one for the last time and not them. 

I was about to finish my cigarette. But cries like no other were keeping me away from the death well. Where they all get thrown out and lost. You can make wishes there sometimes; give them flowers and pray for a warm ray of sun, as warm as their arms were.

But these cries. They were horrid. More than ever. You could tell that the person who died did not have any money. They were screaming. As if hoping to get him back. 

And I knew it was him. And I still remeber. It was the only time I gave up my torch of freedom. I gave up a light concience because I heard my mom crying. And she only cried when I scraped my knees or almost drowned when I was little. I turned my head and I could see the sun through the blue glass and her horrified look. 

I let go. I guess. 

Maybe because I let go long ago and I was so heavy under the thin blue glass. 

And for a moment I couldn't speak. I wasn't anybody's sister or daughter. I was a pebble amidst waves and sand. As if I wasn't before. 

I couldn't speak. Because I had nothing to say, as I was not.

Freedom killed me. She couldn't hold me tight enough. That's how frail and cruel it is; like a child.