Lost In Sorrow

Lost in Sorrows

The faint streetlight, sneaking shyly through the shapeless drapes of the nearly-covered window of his room, made possible such nightly observation, that the cracks on his wall, no doubt, looked a lot different this night; that, at least, was what he had noticed more than anything else. The fissures on the face of that wall appeared intensively profound, like never before; this very night, those scars stretching in remarkable scratches across the fragile structure of his hiding-place did look darker and, most naturally, deeper. This was not a discovery that would disturb his mind, nor was it a call which would, out of basic precaution, force the man to abandon his resting-ground. As a record of facts, we should promulgate that it has always been the case ever since his first night there; however, he never granted much consideration to such circumstances, and, as he crept to his bed each night, he had always expected, even wished, not a few times, that, with some luck, the whole foundation of his residence would collapse to the ground, and his remains would be indistinguishable from the sight of ruins and that, with hopeful prospects, his body would never be identified.

The hammering sound of his rusty, old clock helped keep him out of sleep, just as he wanted, and like it always did for countless nights, but he never had enough courage, nor enough will, to turn it off, or to smash it with what might he was left with. He could not sleep, and he did not want to, even if his terrible anxieties required such a need. He did not want to sleep, simply, because of the dreams he had - his nightmares, to be more accurate, for they were, for the most part, what always intruded on his mysterious epiphanies, and turned them every time into scenes of bleakness. It was not so much of a relief to undergo visions of hallucinations only madmen have - perhaps he is mad, it is quite credible to assume so - only to wake up, weary and frightened, quite naturally, to a reality much frightening than that he had just managed to escape.

The man got to a firm conviction that sleep is no luxury, not for him at least, and it was more beneficial, even if not necessarily to his bodily functions, that he should sustain, for as long and as much as he could pull, from surrendering.

As far as the clock is concerned, it is to be said that the idea of sheer quietness amidst his loneliness almost drove him mad with terror, for, for so long now, he found in that relentless ticking - irritating, though, as it was - a faithful companion which refused to die at his bedside. It was extremely late now, and the air in his room was dense and cold, so cold that it would make a man shiver under heavy blankets, but there he remained motionless for quite a long time, the cold never succeeding in steering a muscle in him; his eyes were fixed firmly on the smoked-up ceiling, unable to think of nothing but how it appeared that the whole room kept on shrinking; and, as the thought of him being trapped in its narrowness took command on his deliberation, he grew justifiably claustrophobic, and, as it happened, his breath, under a gradually painful phase of suffocation, began to fail him.

It was a life-preserving necessity to get up now, though, truth be told, rising up was the last of his intentions, and the idea of giving up to the grips of paralysis promised to be interestingly appealing. He stood up, his knees too weak to hold him straight, so he retreated to sit down, feeling a little dizzy. It was almost dawn, and he was already too tired to start his day; such a night, a night which passed with grave uneasiness, sleeplessness, and melancholic thoughts.

He weighed his life and a tear scrolled down his cheek. Then, he grabbed a knife trying to fulfill an act of great disbelief. Suddenly, and out of nowhere, he remembered the only woman he loved. She is the woman whose lovely face, a figure belonging to an unknown land wher human sins are no longer done, peaceful as a white pigeon, chaste as an angel, brigh as a shooting star, charming as an inexplicable mystery. Her gorgeous eyes, so gentle as a summer breeze, so bright as a sunny day, so unique as property lost from the celestial heaven, so delightful as a greenish joy to cherish and lose track in their magnanimous purity, resemble a vast large meadow in which, there is an infinite number of Green roses fascinating and delicate as one may imagine. Her lips, pinkish like a mesmerizing twilight taking one's mind to fairy tales with marveling stories and not even a glimpse of the ordinary, a feature in her to be idolized like a sacred creed, always seduce their observer as if they were a particle of Mother Nature or an incomprehensible phenomenon from another universe dimension.

Now, the knife by which he intended to end his life with, coming closer to his body, made his mind remember things he lived in a very short period of time - a collection of memories, in short, hardly linked to each other passing, in this moment of frenzy, through that man's eyes as if it all were a movie. In a time of great melancholy, of which the fissures of the vulnerable walls of this room might be able, if it had the capacity to speak, to tell heart - breaking stories, he stabbed himself with the brutal force of a Roman legion.

Hazel, running hastily like a mad person would, so quick like a thunderstorm and rather zealous than hysterical, climbed the stairs then tumbled the corridor toward john's house to tell him that she finally decided to marry him against her parents will. when she saw him lying on the ground, out of sheer shock, she couldn't blink or even move and her mind started giving her daydreaming - nightmares, that she is rooted beside John with thorn in a coffin wearing their bridal clothes in the heart of darkness where there are oceans of blood. A quick vision of death smote her soul. Seeing her beloved close to a certain death, her eyes were full of tears, and completely gloomy. She was resisting the urge to unleash a loud mournful scream.

As a hopeless move, gathering what remained from her sanity, she picked up the phone and called the emergency to rescue John's life. The ambulance came and her lover was carried to Rockfeller Institute Hospital. Hours passed one after the other with Hazel being lost in sorrow waiting out of the coma for a period that seemed like eternity, puzzled just like an etherized patient, lonely, and muted. John and hazel's lives were completely different, for she was rich and he was poor; she had a family, he lost his; she was happy, he was not.

The union of a wretch and a rich in the institution of marriage, even in those days, has always looked at as peculiarly odd no matter how one did. A princess in the middle ages, for instance, could not by any means possible marry a layman and that's not because she was oppressed as a female. The matter here, indeed, is not feminist at all but it is a clash of economic groups, which has always been, along the history of mankind, distinguishable from each other. When it is about love and money , the situation is no different from the middle ages; after all, the poor shall always be the poor who have to know their limits whereas the rich has to be the rich who stay away from lower classes.

Eventually, John died , and hazel now, after a long time, is today a seventy years old grandmother. However, the memory of the old unfulfilled love are still living in hazel's mind, and as she was sitting next to john's tomb, she recalled all the cherished moments they shared as well as the reminiscence of his bitter departure. A glimmer of daylight gently tickled her cheeks as john used to do, and as she laid her hand on the headstone she said: the memory of you shall be inscribed eternally in my head; I will always favor you upon all the living and the dead.