MUTE ROARS

We all have people, I have some too.

They said friends share secrets, I shared mine too

It felt alright till I was fifteen but why does it not when I grew?

I do not know if I am an overthinker, no one cares no one asked

Even if I am not, why does it feel I'm unstinted while giving love,

Didn't hurt till I was fifteen, so why does it now?

Why is no one proud of me, why is it I am always so unsatisfactory?

Am I waning....or do I cherish too much?

I do not know, but this time maybe I want to

They go through bad, I know, I spare no effort,

"You well?"

"Can I help you?"

"How was your day?"

"Did I do anything false?"

"I am sorry, I can ameliorate"

But why always me?

I have priorities too

I have a life to mould

A career to work for, so why always me?

How is it that they ask me how has it been but never wait to hear from me?

How is it they always shut my help and then hate me?

Why is it always their bruise and their injury and always them and them and why not me?

I saw how wrecked they already were and I may not even struggle with half of what they have already been through; but why did I stop asking myself "How do you do?"

Then I recall, I promised myself to pay no mind to my hassle, to close my eyes, and keep moving.

"Withhold to become invulnerable, that's a sign of the weak."

I hurry. I always hurry in making decisions to never look back with remorse, because I know my morals, I am rigid. Seldom is there a doubt, since maybe I am more human than I want to be. I hurry, not because I might change my mind, but I know my conscience won't change because it's always me. Stranded, without help, without assistance.

Once I thought I should ask for help, which I did to make them feel belonged, not because I needed assistance. All I got to hear was "This is your decision, why to ask us?"

I agreed and walked down to my dungeon mind space.

"It's alright, I couldn't explain them", so I walked barefoot on that hot metal strip; burning my skin black. I might fall from a great height if it's one wrong step. It is all fire underneath, unnatural red flames, but they do not scare me now, never did. I shan't stop, it's all where I got to go, all the places I have to reach.

Someone wise once said, "We all have different levels of pain" and yes it did make sense when I analysed all the times I laughed at them for whining over little things.

"C'mon there are better things to cry over, why this?" I used to rebuke.

With time the more people I met, I realised it's not always the amount of injury you receive, it's also about how thick your skin is.

I see they carry their mountains, I carry mine; why do I just see theirs is always bigger than mine? I forget we have the same hands, same legs, same eyes but not the endurance. Not the fortitude and never the stoicism. I always fail to judge, which is bigger- my mountain or is it the endurance? Whatever it maybe, it makes me stronger, stronger than yesterday, stronger than the day before.

One cold night a billionaire met an old poor man outside. He asked him, "Don't you feel cold outside, without any coat?"

"I don't have a coat, but I am used to this."

"Wait for me, I will get in my house and bring you one."

The happy old man exclaimed that he would wait for him. The billionaire went inside, got busy, and forgot about the man.

In the morning after waking up when he realized how he forgot about this, he went outside to check on the old man. He was dead from cold, but left a note saying

When I had no warm clothes, I had the power to fight the cold because I was used to that. When you promised to help me, I got attached to your promise and lost my power to resist.

There's this reason why my trust is so shallow, regardless of how much convincing their language sounds.

"Do not trust them, stay mute, sweep your feelings under the carpet."

How it feels, I don't know because some scientific fact said intelligent people are never happy enough. About happy, I just know the spelling; but I do know how numb is it inside, it's my chest or mind, I dunno, could it be all of me? If it could, then maybe it is.

I am not old enough, but I know overused things shall be discarded; how soon I do not know, but soon. Here I stand then, patiently, waiting for my turn.

Ruminating for hours, I deduced, once you see the worst, everything feels just bad.

I know, I know everyone has different levels of pain and so are their different levels of understanding and interpreting others' torment. Even if they ask me how is it with me, I tell them I am free, with the least muddle, or maybe even without it. It is a habit, habit of the numb, habit of mute, a habit of me; so do not bend my truths to fit your meanings, it hurts, please.

If we call it a business deal with the centre table where we present a part of ourselves, no thank you. I have enough to keep, nothing to give because I see you have no space, no volume. I am big, I am long, I am wide, to kilometers and miles. How much of me would you willingly keep and how much of me would you reject? So do not promise, if you can not commit.

~Trauma is a royal word that can only be felt, never explained.

Who has enough strength to gather words to unfold the distress and ask for ways to deal with it? Collect combinations of alphabets and make a delicious broth to make them understand the depths they don't understand the meaning of. Those boundaries which they do not respect, those precious poems of mine I wrote to hide what I feel, why shall I disperse my precious belongings to you, who has no sense of understanding and would never get what I am meaning to tell you?

Those walls, those boundaries are all yours, do not make them mine.

Thus, I step back and tell myself,

"That is why........

it's always me."

-Morphinated

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Photo: Arbitrary art

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