a rebel carries no name

sandstorm

Oh, so stupidly naïve was I when I thought that was the end of them in my life, for even in their physical absence, they stayed on in my head like persistent moths trapped.

It is so easy. All I have to do is forget. Forget. Forget and go back to how it was. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget and live.

So easy, so damned easy, and yet I hesitate but for this useless guilt. How? How? How had they managed to get into my head? How had they made me doubt myself? How? How was I reduced to this mess?

It is all just so stupidly easy and yet I cannot bring myself to turn my back on the arguments they have nailed onto my door, can't bring myself to turn my back on them, on the shining goal they have set out on, can't turn on my own country.

As lord Krishna said, "To stand apart in a war for dharma was to align yourself with the adharma."

Am I so far fallen that I would turn from my purpose just to exist comfortably? For it would not be living, I would just be existing as less than a damned cockroach. Oh, the guilt, oh the shame, the terrible, terrible shame. Sure, no one but him would know of this stain on my soul – but how would I ever hold my head high, much less bear to look him in the eye.

Is it not normal that we seek comfort? Then, is it not completely natural that I shy away from the path they are laying down in front of me? For the path forward is nothing but a desperate fire of pain and suffering.

Other voices clamoured in my head for their turn of attention.

Rebel, it was all an illusion, rebel; we sacrificed our souls and yoked our nation to slavery and abject humiliation

Rebel

We, our ancestor; does it matter? the once unbowed head was squashed under the foot of filthy mongrels and you dared to grow fat on its blood and tears, rebel, you heathen, and maybe the gods you kicked will be merciful in death.

Dedicate your hearts.

Rise and burn yourself for the nation.

Arise.

Rebel.

BURN.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

Its—it's so confusing.

It's all so confusing.

I don't even realize when I start screaming, all I do is become aware of my aching jaw and the hoarse roughness in my throat and the way my eyes hurt from being squeezed shut, my cheeks wet and hot and my hands oh so cold as they claw at me. I am hot and cold all over, and somewhere dimly I do realize I am having a massive breakdown, but I do not have the space to safely, to detachedly process that fact and all that it entails – so I cry myself to sleep, right on the floor. I trust the myself of tomorrow, he always learns and grows. I cry. I cry till I am too tired to remain conscious and then I dream of things that are long forgotten and yet to come. I cry myself asleep.

I awake with a pounding head at 3:33 in the dark to him tucking a blanket around me.

The next time I wake is gently, to the warmth of a kind benevolent sun, and embrace of a kind Nature – I saw him between my dreams and nightmares, and I don't know what to call him, and I am nowhere near to calling him anything, so when forgetting tempts me with their sweet arms, I fall willingly into them, it's almost too easy to forget all of it.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

I was visiting the post office when my former social circle found me and escorted me to the tea stall; talking about how they missed me, how a reconciliation could be achieved, how I was meant for greater things, and how being with them was the sole way to achieve them.

This one line flashed through my head – "never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep."

We really could never be what we used to be. I scoffed at their stupidly naïve hopes and equally unreasonable demands. How long did they think I would go around knowingly with a blindfold that didn't let me behold the reality; the cruel reality that I had unknowingly helped build with just my continued ignorance and refusal to see, to actually see. Blending in with the band of students coming from the university, I made a quick getaway.

A hot bath will clear all this up and give plenty of time to sort through my own head.

Instead, I found him waiting for me.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

I reached the terrace first. He was coming. He had said, after the errand Father had given him, last minute. I was content in waiting to go join the Resistance together. Thoughts ran amok and birthed ideas; I let them; it was a fun past-time. This one stood out, though.

It is all a labor of love and through all this, you're by my side.

I had barely silently uttered the words when I caught sight of my favorite shawl slung on all too familiar shoulders. It was the dead of night; I didn't dare call after him, that's when I looked closely. And gasped in sinking horror. He was dressed in my most noticeable garb and the next blind corner he was jumped. They hadn't even bothered to cover their faces, the same people who hours ago had attempted to sway me to their side back again, were clearly out for my blood. There were fists and feet and punches and kicks and I caught the first flash of metal. Oh god, they would kill him. He would die. die die die. Die in my stead. He would die in my stead!

I had the highest vantage point and maybe that's what made it all the much worse. Being higher above meant more time getting down. By the time I haltingly realized what was happening and forced my feet to move through the haze of hyperventilation, to turn around, to jerkily move myself to the stairs, it was already too late. I realized that as I raced down and yet refused to confront that fact.

My feet hit the cobbled path and I froze. I forced myself to move. Again.

One step.

Another.

Another.

Then another.

And then I was running.

Falling to my knees.

At his side.

At his cold, cold side.

I think something broke in me that day; like how a bone break and heals to be tougher.

You see, when you can shoulder your past's corpse and put one foot infront of the other to face the future, you see, that's when you truly feel alive, awake. Like the world just cleared up. Like you're the last person standing in an apocalypse and the first one in the new world in its aftermath.

The only path now was forward: the Resistance and his vision of me.

They knew I would come; the lights were burning fresh when I reached the door. What they wouldn't have anticipated was the state I would be in, both physical and psychological.

I was made anew in his pyre; 

the world the same, 

the apocalypse was me.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *