Little Things. #wattys2017

D u o d e c i m

                                                                                     H O M E

"If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change." ~ Dr Wayne Dyer.

//The words in Italics are extracts taken from 'The twelve' by William Gladstone.//

Wesley wiped a tear he sat in the back seat of a taxi. He watched the street lights rapidly passing by as they speeded on the road. It was early morning, around 4:30am or so, the sun a few minutes shy from shining with its glorious light beams. An old country song hummed in the background, his breath following the faint beats playing in it.

Max knew from the beginning that there was a purpose to his life and an important destiny that he had been called upon to fulfil.

His gaze turned towards the piece of paper that he subconsciously crinkled in his right palm. It held the words that would guide him home. That place where he always longed to visit. The place which held so many stories that it was overwhelming for him. That place that he once left behind, in order to seek happiness. Freedom. But today, he was headed for that very same place. Why? Was he strong enough to face the consequences?

There was a voice in his head that spoke of a reason for which he had been born, yet there were no words-just colors and powerful vibrations. His inner world, this secret playground, was filled with beauty and elegance, and it made Max very happy.

Wesley always had an impeccable imagination. His world consisted of people and characters that one cannot find in this world. At least in his small one. These people held stories and emotions that one cannot quiet decipher. But he held these people in his mind, had full-blown conversations with them. And things actually made sense to him when he did. These voices guided him to find beauty and tales in things. They supported him when he felt down. They took places of people in his life who he would never meet. They guided him to see life in the non-existent. They guided him to bring them to life. All throughout his tender childhood.

Yet he knew one thing; he was alone. They didn't actually exist. They couldn't be seen or touched. They could just be heard and felt. Emotionally. It was always him and his mother in reality. And both of them were warriors battling in the mental wars in their heads. It seemed complicated for him. This period. He was mentally drained and frustrated with the constant struggles and loneliness he had to deal with. He started failing to see things he could see and feel before. That's when things changed.

His house, the previous one, wasn't the best place to grow up in. Screams, cries and frustrated sighs boomed in the decorated hallways all the time. The tension in the house was overbearing. The lights dimmed the moods of everyone who stepped into the house. The air was stiff. But it was always called a home. Absurd isn't it?

From the moment of his birth, Max accepted that wherever he was, he was exactly where he was supposed to be in life and was completely at peace with the idea.

Although, at the back of his mind, Wesley always craved that mess he had in his life. He missed the screams, cries and frustrated sighs that boomed in the decorated hallways. He craved that overbearing tension. He hoped for the dimmed lights to illuminate his life. He wanted to breathe that stiff air. He wanted to go home. Again, absurd isn't it? How such a place can be longed for? By that very same boy who once ran away from it all? For happiness?

Wesley let out a small sigh as he recalled how he managed to steal this small little paper. He pulled it out from his mother's dairy. She always wrote in it every day. He mentally face palmed himself as he realized that his mother would now know where he was headed off to. Shaking his head in disappointment, he huffs and crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. Resting his head on the head rest, he closed his eyes as he ruminated, as usual.