A Cathartic Release of the Soul

Within her, something is weeping, shouting, and crying out in agony— an anger so intense and crimson that it could overpower the hue of blood. What is this? Why does it exist? Is it a sense of hopelessness, sorrow, or surrender to everything, to life?

Adorned with an exquisite facade, fooling everyone, she returns to her room, confined like a small cubicle— dim, stifling, and, above all, desolate. Fatigued and drained from the unintended deceit she has caused, her eyes portray a bleak darkness akin to a hollow ravine. Taking a perch on her bed, she contemplates how to cover her course in the week to come. Ironical, isn't it? How uncertain she feels, how absurd and irrational her mind has become, pondering so far ahead, unsure if she will even remain on this earth to witness the sunrise the next day or is she in search of an excuse to pass time?

She resembles a shattered glass awaiting the final blow, the final touch with the floor. Her tragedy is a captivating sight— the fragments of her delicate heart scattered on the pavement, looking enchanting, reflecting the moonlight's rays. Lying on the ground, she reflects on the past, a time when she was oblivious to the darkness that pervades this Earth— unmindful of life's sombre realities, indifferent to the future's uncertainties. A tear of the shade of moonlit saltwater flows down her cheeks like a river lost on its journey to the ocean. Is she shedding tears, or is it her soul that weeps?

Weeping— oh, how consoling it is. She weeps for hours, validated by the cold, watery floor. Slowly rising as the burden on her heart lightens. Leaning on the nearby table, she gains her footing. A sensation less agonising, less piercing, less biting now touches her. She weeps as she gazes at her fractured reflection in the mirror of her life. Her eyes shine like a radiant and luminescent ravine, holding that one flicker of light that still remains, her nose as red as a parakeet's beak, and her cheeks tinted pink as if pinched forcefully and severely. A faint smile still graces her face, clutching onto that last ember of hope with all her strength and will. As fatigued as she was, she leaves the support of the table and stands upright. Packing her bag, fastening her shoes, securing the dishevelled locks, she steps out of her room, she ventures forth to confront the reality of her existence with the mask back on as inadvertently as it sounds.

Ah, how lovely, how beautiful, how true these lines by Robert Frost are after all,

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.”

Image by Perlinator from Pixabay