Later that night, when the lamps went dim with no noise. I took out my atlas and put it on my lap. My heaving breathing amplified with the sound of the silence as I ran my weary fingers on the paper outlets of each continent. And asked where does it hurt.
Everywhere,
everywhere,
everywhere
it answered. The world was dark there, the glimmer of hope had no way of reaching the abyss. Maybe I was a part of each country myself, quiet and never speaking. It came to me suddenly one day when I saw a man roaming the streets asking for food with this dishevelled hands and bruised clothes and all that people could do was push him away or say how bad he looked. Or maybe that small dog who died in the middle of the road and no human bothered to put up a proper funeral for him. As humans we don't like anything messy, we seek intrusive perfection, a state which we all strive to demand. Saying that, we are like the continents, still and breathing with a thousand lamps in ourselves, burning with kindness. And kindness is not a gift it's a rather propelled act of empathy. And we are endowed with it plentiful. So before all the lights go out permanently, shower yourself and others with a small bit of kindness, it will do the magic.
YOU ARE READING
Moth House
PoetryCorpses of words which had been dead for a long time. Where Home eats her own existence and memories float like dust in the air, with dangerous nostalgia
