There’s a strange feeling of aching palpitation settling within the spaces of your heart, between your lungs and at the bottom of your throat. It makes you nauseous with its dance around the warmth of your body. The feeling stays in – it happens to see your heart as its long-lost home, but it ekes out the space for happy hours and days.
You wish to pull off that feeling from your mind and body, the same way you’d pulled a thread out of your sweater, but your soul seems to find it hard to let go. At night, you roll over on your bed, grab your pillows so tightly as if it will magically make the feeling – the pain – disappear while you will let your tears flow. You ardently pray that it is the last time you are sleeping with eyes full of tears and a mind snatched of its peace. The same silent cry echoes the next night. And the night after. It does not show any ends, and you make the empty walls of the room your confidant because your heart feels so heavy and you fear that its weight may take you down somewhere even more in-depth than rock bottom.
Often, you fantasize about squeezing the pain between your fingers and wrecking it, like, it does to your ribs. Other times, when kindness overflows through your veins, you wish to hold the pain in your arms and cradle it and listen to its story even when you already know the minute of details. You practice it almost as an act of self-infliction.
But you know, everything is ephemeral, so is the pain and it will definitely fade. Maybe, at the moment, you are romanticizing about how it will end; desiring someone or something to crash into your life in brilliant magnificence to mend your brokenness and glue your scattering pieces with love and safety or you feel that you deserve the pain because you have been told that you are not good enough so many times that you have eventually lost count or the simple pretense to be cold-hearted when you’re profoundly hurting on the inside turns you on.
I don’t know neither how nor when it ends. But it will eventually end. I also wish there would be a magical potion or wand for an immediate fix but let’s be real. It’s life, and it’s never going to happen. For sure, not in this way. There is still that little magical thing which exists and you, willingly or unwillingly, seek it every day. From the minute, you open your eyes at dawn to walking in the buzzing city to driving past the green fields to the very last moment, you close your eyes and fall into a temporary death, whether at home, in the office or in your class, you seek it. It becomes an invisible ointment to your scars, fears and pains. You call it hope. I call it hope. We all call it hope. The hope to see more tomorrows filled with thousand suns. The hope to find something to hold on when you are drowning in the middle of the sea. The hope to be able to open up to someone who listens and understands. The hope to reach where you truly belong. It is about unlearning everything you’ve known for your whole life, undoing all the knots in your throat and your stomach and trusting that there is a power stronger than gravity itself, watching over you. Continuously and consistently.
Above all, when things seem to be burdensome, in your pain and sadness, gently remind yourself that you possess the strength of nature, the bravery of a soldier and the beauty of hope. Nothing is quite close to forever than your atoms wanting you to hold onto the hope and faith because in time, they too will change their arrangement and compromise with the universe, the way you are doing it with your sadness. And the day will happen when you wake up in the morning and the sunflowers in your heart will face the sun. Bright and happy.