Bouts Of Writing

Laughter and Tears

When I was younger, before my teenage years came into play, the world had seemed to be such a wonderful place. It had been filled to the brim with the golden rays of sunlight that tumbled through windows and danced through all the furniture in my house as it played being infant rainbows, born out of the laughter of a child who was yet to know the storm behind heavy, grey clouds.

I had been unaware of those with shards in their hearts that left them colder than marble and a mind resembling the most poisonous of snakes. People had seemed to be awfully nice. They had smiled at me, reaching a hand out to pat a chubby cheek or pull me close and almost squeeze all the innocence out of me. I remember, whenever my mother had hugged me, I would bury my head into the fabrics of her clothes and attempt to wrap my small arms completely around her, inhaling a mixed scent of spices and a soft, flowery fragrance. I would attempt to melt into my mother to become a part of her, a whole being with no crevices and voids, to be as powerful as I had then imagined my mother to be.

However, with my father, I had longed to fly. He would lift me and spin me around and I would stretch my arms to the heavens, giggles tumbling from my mouth like raindrops. I would ask him to spin me faster until I felt that I had wings that would spread and carry me far away, above lush green valleys, snowy mountaintops, heavy dew, and alongside the black-tipped wings of a majestic albatross. I had longed to be anything but human. Being human had seemed so mundane to me when I could have been a bumblebee that made a home in the soft petals of a flower; a cat that could be so very graceful; a dog who made friends all around; a tree that grew so tall, it could see above the horizon and into a never-ending space dotted with stars. Life had seemed so very simple then, laughter came so easily and the sun seemed to shine forever.

But then I grew up, and I began to understand the cruelty of humans. There were sneers behind grins, omnipresent malice, and knives that were buried hilt deep into my back, until I grew numb to it all as if I had finally swallowed too much anesthesia. The world became too bright to look at, ablaze with hate.

The lies I discerned from the mouths of those I had once trusted ripped me like a piece of paper. The pieces were then burned by such cruel truths and then the flames were extinguished by my crystal tears that fell in a hail, but the pieces were merely ashes. I sheltered the ashes in my arms for as long as I possibly could until a cruel gust of wind burst forth in a flurry of exams and results, scattering the ashes all over, leaving me as empty as a shell that had once been home to a small crab.

The sunlight still danced, but to me, it formed neither soft shapes nor curves; only sharp silhouettes and angles that threatened to pierce my eyes if they lingered too long. The sound of rain and thunder that boomed and resonated to my core, brought me peace. The lightning that tore the sky apart mesmerized me, and the dark engulfed me in a soft blanket as I sought peace and tranquility in the least likely places: in thunderstorms; in the shadows; in the scarred face of the moon; behind pages of worn books.

Whenever I hug my parents now, I long not to melt, nor to fly, but, instead, to escape, if only for a few moments. I wish to turn into a bumblebee, a cat, a dog, a tree- just to stop being a human. Because being a human is exhausting, cruel and suffocating, and one must learn that the only way to live in such a world, in such a form, is to appreciate the little joys that appear like the dust from imploding stars; the faint scents of childhood; the tastes of success; the sounds of a bird in the morning; the velvety feel of a first love.

The world I live in, and the life I live, have both become a paradox of light and dark, rain and sunshine, laughter, and tears.