Symphony of Tragedies

TW: Depression, Self-harm

They look at you dead straight in the eyes and repeat the words over and over again, “When you find yourself engulfed by desperate desires to escape, it will traverse its path to you.” They don’t tell you how or when, though. They never reveal the secrets.

So I believe people would hardly put their trust in my words when I tell them I found it; I found the carnival that was supposed to be sheathed in layers of obscurity.

********

The symptoms began about a year ago when my life was suddenly stripped away of colours. Walking across the pavement was no longer seeking cheeky opportunities to gape at the transcendental spectacle that the changing colours of sky offered. The sky was monochromatic now, a dull gray bestrewn with domes housing a civilized population. The rain ceased bringing along with it the felicities I found in ambling by the lush meadows. The porcelain vase on my nightstand now held in its embrace the withered petals of once blushing blossoms, and the moon that dazzled so perfectly through the window was no longer my muse.

The weight of the grief that I had managed to suppress for years now had condensed into humid shadows above my head hefty enough to block the rays of the sun that once used to weave graceful patterns on my skin through the canopies. It ached to even look outside of the window to observe the ashen limbs of the aspen that now seemed to me like corpses drenched in a ghostly pallor. And it ached because it brought haunting memories to life, memories that I had been wanting to bury forever, but now this crippling despondence won’t let subside.

We are born to love and suffer upon loss, they say, but no one tells you about the intensity of the suffering. No one tells you that it is potent enough for you to jump into the ether and cling to the barest remains of the existence of your loved ones. No one tells you that it stings when instead of the remnants, your fingers brush across the shards of broken fortunes, promises, and relationships. And they absolutely refuse to acknowledge what comes after the suffering- the void in your chest that sits there like an empty chasm you wish you could fling your body into. You feel the depression creeping in insidiously, and you can resist, brawl or scream on the top of your lungs, but the voice refuses to leave the confines of the void. No one can hear you inside for the chasm is empty, and the voice mocks you as it reverberates along the jagged edges of the void, but finds no escape. You find yourself sinking deep into the ocean of loneliness and as the world outside drowns out, a single shiver crawls down your spine. What you feel, thereafter, is nihility.

********

I found the corner of the library convenient enough to remain inconspicuous and took a seat, as I struggled to carry the cumbersome baggage of books in my hands. I knew I shouldn’t be here and practicing my guitar instead, but I had arrived at the conclusion that I had no reason to do so anymore. The existence of the person who had bought the hardwood instrument had faded away, and I didn’t want any hints of his presence lingering around, for it augmented the void in my chest. A throbbing pain took over my entire head when it was consumed with the thoughts of his calloused but gentle hands clasping my tiny ones and strumming along to my first tunes. My father was long gone, and it was time for me to let go of the guitar, which quite possibly had been his most prized possession for as long as he lived. I didn’t deserve it anyway, not when there wasn’t an ounce of passion for music left in my heart. It had stopped capering along to the beats of music the day my father’s heartbeat halted.

So I knew I was better off in the library, distracting myself with a bundle of books, tragedies, to be precise. There is something hauntingly beautiful, but cruel about tragedies. They clench the insides of your soul and wrap them around with bandages of hope. And as you turn over to the last few pages, the bandages tear apart, leaving the soul to crumble to pieces. But it wouldn’t hurt to confess that I preferred getting my soul crushed sometimes for tragedies are a testimony to the fact that the good is not always victorious. Tragic heroes make it seem okay for people who have inured severe hurt to not be okay at the end. And they somehow, manage to make breaking down and giving up seem not so pathetic. Not every story ends with a beatific montage and not every great film needs to be greeted by rapturous applause.

********

I decided to give up that day. I knew I couldn’t take it anymore, the shadows above me had transformed into a weight strong enough to pulverize me any moment. It hurt to merely exist when the person who had guided me across the bridge of existence was not around anymore. And I found myself howling to be left alone every night when his ghosts tormented me. It hurt to merely breathe on, pretending to be a flower, when the thorns were pricking my insides. It hurt pretending that my life wasn’t going to be an agonizing tragedy and it ached so much that day when I knew that the escape was one wrist slice away. I had almost lifted the sharpened edge of the knife, preparing for my monochromatic life to be splotched in crimson, when the peripheral vision of my eyes caught sight of something much more vibrant and unforeseen.

The light coming from outside the window was too bright to let it go unnoticed, but that wasn’t what made my feet move on their own. It was a sort of hypnotic magnetism pulling me towards the abstruse source of radiance. Dazed footsteps made a tranquil path down my driveway and turned left to come face to face with a reverie possessing utmost verisimilitude. What stood before me was about a twenty feet tall and wide stretch of canvas that seemed to be hiding behind it, the source of the enchantments of the night. My hands, which could feel the enthusiasm pumping through my veins, apprehensively traced the outlines of the tent, before they managed to get hold of an aperture. The canvas sparkled brilliantly under the graveyard of stars, and I knew that the insides could only have much more to offer. Adults usually tell us not to meddle with dangerous things, but curiosity often kills the cat. I lifted the tarp’s opening and made my way inside the tent.

What greeted me inside was a breathtaking view that made me feel like I had been born again, like I had just opened my eyes for the first time and witnessed a world full of unfathomed surprises. The first surprise came in the form of the colours, and I had to flinch and look away for it was too bright for someone who had gotten used to perceiving the world through a monochromatic lens. But when my eyes registered the scene once again, I knew there was no looking back again, not until my heart had drunk every aspect of the Elysium that stood before me. Trees as tall as the tent festooned with colourful banners and silver bells sheltered a bustling crowd of people who marveled at the splendor of everything around them. From a jovial group of children dancing along to the happy tunes in the carousel to the sea of exhilarated faces around the vendor selling delightful sweets, the place was washed over with merry waves.

It was a carnival- a celebration of the joyful living spirit. And my feet were navigating through it before I could even realise. The scent of caramel wafted through the air, as people around me munched on apple strudels. The place was garlanded with flowers of all kinds, from the scarlet azaleas to vibrant chrysanthemums giving out whiffs of intoxicating aroma with butterflies fluttering around them like fervid gusts of festive winds. A clamour could be heard from around the ferris wheel, as it rotated about on its axis, giving people the chances to reach lofty heights, break open through the canvas and reach for the stars.

My admiration of the wheel was suddenly replaced with thoughts of what caught my sight soon after. Towards the far right of the tent, stood a porcelain statue of an elegant woman wearing a flamboyant gown, with dainty shoes adorning her feet. A diadem of white roses was planted on top of her small head of luscious silver tresses that fell around her ear like ramparts around medieval forts. The papery white fabric of her gown was embellished with cerulean trimmings around the edges and her thin long fingers held in between them a faux rose saturated in the colour of blood. But as beautiful as the statue was, it wasn’t her grandeur that made me stop dead in the tracks; it was the horrifying expression on her face, so full of pain as if the statue was a captured memory from the moments when life was being sucked out of her. Cemented tears made a tranquil path down her cheeks as her pensive eyes regarded the crowd from underneath the curtain of her long lashes. I could feel my head throbbing excruciatingly against my temple as I got nearer, but it was impossible to resist looking at her. It was as if I had been tranced. So I gathered all my might to compose myself, and turned around. I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes shut. I knew at once that I did not wish to experience what I had seen at all. I did not wish to experience life being drawn out of me. My thoughts caught me off guard for a second. For a person who was clutching a knife in her hands mere moments ago, this introspection wasn’t any less of a sudden plot twist.

My eyes flashed open to breathe in the colours of the carnival once more, only to come to the realization that I was in an unfamiliar place. The statue was no longer around, yet the ambiance told me that I was still inside the carnival. A troupe accoutered in jazzy outfits giggled to themselves while dancing along to soft music. Towards the corner, it was quiet enough to hear the low hum of cicadas creating a glorious euphony. The aperture through which I had entered the carnival was no longer in sight. I wouldn’t have expected getting lost in a place celebrating the chaotic splendor of life when I had been contemplating its meaning mere moments ago, when I had been so adamant about ending it. The most amusing fact was that the idea of living almost seemed refreshing now.

Maybe if I were to get out of the carnival now, I wouldn’t perceive the sky as a graveyard of stars, but rather a cradle of celestial bodies. Maybe if I were to sit out in the rain, I would stop using the droplets as means of hiding my tears. Maybe the raindrops could drown me in something other than my own voice, the nostalgic happiness of capering by lush meadows. Every sound in the confines of the place felt like music to my ears. Maybe if I were to go back to my room, I’d be courageous enough to pick the long-forgotten guitar again. Maybe, just maybe, the thrumming of strings could make my heart beat again. What were the chances of the sun showing up once again and drenching my hitherto monochromatic life in colours? Why was I so scared of the ghosts that had haunted me in the first place? Maybe if I were to go out now, I’d be valiant enough to face them head-on.

My feet were rushing through the crowd again, pushing against the bodies that felt hollow as I sped around them. The veins in my hand were still pumping adrenaline, for I could feel my bones shaking with the zest. I could feel my head throbbing still, but this time, I didn’t mind the pain one bit. Maybe if I were to escape this place, I would stop looking for happiness in the ether, and instead, seek the songs of cicadas. Why, oh why hadn’t I ever noticed that their harmonies sounded so mellifluous? My fingers were aching to touch my guitar again, and hum along to its merry tunes. There was no certainty that life would go back to being an idyllic one or that I would be consumed by an unparalleled biophilia, but if there was one thing I was certain about, it was that I would never let the expression on the statue’s face lurk on mine. Maybe this place was a figment of my imagination, maybe this carnival was all in my head, but I was firm enough to find a way out now. My feet struggled against the gravel path inside the carnival, and my eyes strained to look for the exit. I wouldn’t want life to be stolen from me when the world was still full of unraveled surprises. I wanted to dance along with the merry winds, sing along to the chirping morning birds and praise the moon in my songs like I used to in the past. I wanted to ride the freedom that savouring the finer details of the world had to offer. I wanted to get a glimpse of every delightful thing life held in its repository.

Just as the trail of thoughts was slithering across my mind, I spotted an arched gateway directly across me. The gate was fashioned of a dark, sturdy metal that conjured up images of artistic fictional architecture in my mind. It appeared to me like more of an entrance than an exit, and that only corroborated the doubts in my mind about having entered from a place that I was not supposed to. The black iron upon its lustrous hinges elevated the grandeur of the place, welcoming stares even from a considerable distance. On top of the sleek metal was a white coloured board holding some letters that appeared incomprehensible from the distance. Nearing the gap between myself and the gate, I could hear the thumping of my heart, beating faster than it ever had. In the split second before I would touch the dark metal and escape from the gates, I could feel the anticipation of life awaiting me on the other end. The rustling of the leaves and the bushes of rhododendron in the carnival tried to distract me from my path, but they weren’t strong enough for me to let go of my newfound love for life. Escaping this place meant no more hiding at the library and trying to elude the reality.

As I lifted a quivering hand to brush against the glossy iron of the gates, my eyes drifted above to see what the huge signboard read in bold black letters.

‘The Carnival of the Dead’, it said. The gates refused to budge.

Tragedies are a cruel thing, I warned you.