Sunlight streams through the windowpane, the thin, transparent glass separating me from my only source of Vitamin D. I've never liked going outside, but the last few days being trapped against my own will makes me long for the things I've never thought to appreciate.
It's interesting to see how people nowadays long for the things they've disregarded.
School.
Work.
Food.
Social interactions.
These are the things people hated or never appreciated before the plague.
And these are the very things that people crave for now.
I'm taking this time to think.
To reflect.
Not ponder.
Reflect.
A questions pops out in front of me, one I haven't thought of in a long time.
It asks me: "what is your biggest fear?"
It gives me multiple answers to choose from.
Two shine above the rest like flashlights in a dark, empty room.
"What is your biggest fear?"
Choice A: "Disappointing people who look up to me."
Choice B: "My own mind."
"What is your biggest fear?"
Legs slide out from the covers of my bed, toes sliding and crawling on the floor. These curious parts lead me to the mirror that glares in my room during the day and glint brightly against the moon at night. Eyes meet eyes that have longed to meet another pair of eyes. Hair black as a raven's feathers and skin as pale as the ever-changing moon reflect against its identical twin. Scars ever-so deep and wounds stingingly fresh match the girl across from her, their striking similarities comforting yet unsettling at the same time.
There's one difference though that both black eyes notice as they stare one another down.
She is of the past.
And she is of the present.
"What is your biggest fear?"
The reflection responds with a smile, a smile so genuinely fake it pains me to know I, too, once held an expression that I thought fooled all.
"What is your biggest fear?"
She of the past responds, "Disappointing people who look up to me."
She of the past holds onto that smile, the so-called smile that brightens other people's day as the person owning that smile falls deeper and deeper into a never-ending darkness. She of the past, whose eyes, though small and humble, lights up on command when talking with a person so to seem genuinely passionate but blacken as soon as the spotlight disappears. She of the past whose voice projects the qualities of sweet and funny immediately stitches up, like a cloth through a sewing machine, once the people have left the party. She of the past, whose life seems beautiful and perfect, actually has no life at all.
She of the past, though living herself, does not live for herself but live for the lives of others.
She lives for the lives of others.
Without the lives of others, she of the past would have no life.
She of the past would have ended it a long time ago.
She of the past responded with the disappointment of others.
That is her biggest fear, for the spotlight was put against her unprotected being and the pedestal was raised up so high that there was no way of getting back down.
She of the past lived a horrible life that no one can see but I.
For I am she of the present.
"What is your biggest fear?"
She of the present responds, "My own mind."
She of the present is the result of she of the past.
She of the past lost the lives she lived for.
She of the past lost the motivation to keep on living.
She of the past single-handedly lost her life.
She of the present is the result of she of the past.
She of the present is the remaining empty ghost of she of the past.
Why did she of the present fear the mind of her own?
Why did she of the present fear her own mind?
Why would she of the present ever fear the mind she owns?
Well, it's because she of the present is I.
I ponder and ponder and ponder and ponder about the worst of the worst, the baddest of the bad, and the evilest of the evil atrocities that could ever be known to man.
That is what she of the present thinks about.
And I know all too well that the mind is a powerful and dangerous being.
.
.
.
.
.
I leave me reflection and return to my bed, reflecting and reflecting and reflecting.
I thought nothing else could make me feel as terrified as my four fears do.
But I was wrong.
I thought my biggest fears would end at four.
But I should've known, people never stop fearing.
Society never stops fearing.
Humanity will never ever stop fearing.
And I, too, will always be fearing.
As I reflect and reflect and reflect, a chill runs down my body as I discover another fear of mine.
A fear I never thought could exist.
I look to the mirror in my room.
The person within it calls herself "She of the Past."
The body I own refers to herself as "She of the Present."
And as I roll around in my bed, black eyes looking up at the popcorn ceiling, I wonder...
Who is she of the future?
Where is she of the future?
What fears she of the future?
I ponder and ponder and ponder, chills continuing to run down my body.
Fear #5.
My new fear.
The fear of who I'll become.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
आध्यात्मिकA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
