I woke up to a terrible storm ravaging my world…
An overpowering wind threatened entrance by force as the floor length windows shuddered. The curtains had succumbed to the call of the wind yet remained sucked and concaved into the glass panes, flapping fitfully at the separation.
A bleak, gloomy day – pale yellow, as though polluted by years of smog – unnatural and filthy. The world looked on the outside, the way I felt on the inside. Was I slipping again, into that abyss of nothingness?
It was one of those days that I’d known, intuitively, was on its way. Like a weather forecast, I could tell…my spirt was drawing close to a certain state I knew so well – weary, hopeless and utterly drained out – as though the pouring clouds were mirroring my energy – wrung dry and rendered void.
I tried to tell myself that it must be this current climate the global-collective is living under – forced and exhausting – but that doesn’t explain how I’ve been experiencing the same season for so many years in my life – like clockwork – a dreaded routine. I don’t know for sure what brings about these bouts of feeling so low that all I want to do is lock myself up for days and cry my heart out (which I know is no solution); and, anyway, crying was easier years ago – now I don’t even have the reserves, it seems – so the sky cries out and pours for me.
Listless and melancholy, my heart feels like it doesn’t even beat on such days; and I feel like I’m buried beneath centuries of existence.
No one teaches us how to be our own parent as life goes on, do they, dear reader? – How to love and nourish ourselves, when that is the only lesson any pupil can ever need in life! Spirit and soul are so neglected generally, that we grow up learning to neglect it in our turn – and don’t know how to deal with reality – all the while, ironically, craving for something real to heal us.
These crying spells or bouts of lowness last days at a stretch leaving me so shaken that waking up from it, is like waking up to a fading, dying storm – paths strewn with twigs and leaves; mess of debris; destruction, ruin and loss.
Deep breaths – the wind blows with some semblance of normalcy again. This too shall pass, I say, knowing that somewhere it hasn’t; and if it has, it has taken something with it.
I pull myself together and decide to get out of my bed but can’t. Not just yet. The storm begins to subside, yet it still pours outside. No thunder and no flashes of lightning anymore, though, which is a good sign.
Then, somewhere, clear as crystal, I hear a bird singing – the same bird I’ve heard sing all my life, every single morning – the same, sweet, joyful notes “like water bubbling from a silver jar” as Oscar Wilde once wrote. I get out of bed, as the sky demands attention, and parting the curtains, look at the world outside – a pale blue sky, with a solitary, animated orange cloud right at the centre. Charming!
It still rains softly, but the bird still sings…
And isn’t that how life is, dear reader?
© Isha Garg