THE BLACK SHEEP

What is it to not be fitting in? To be that black sheep of the entire family of humans. Who is she, one might ponder? Why is it that she can’t display her emotions to the extent that people start feeling she is emotionless? To display vulnerability is to expose a heart susceptible to torture, to shattering, a realm which she dares not to traverse.

Comfort eludes her in the divulgence of emotions, it is not convenient for her to acknowledge the little efforts people put towards the relationships they share. Words are not enough and convenient for her to express, to convey the depths of the sentiments she feels or wants to communicate, and that is a major flaw of hers yet unfortunately beyond her power to control it.

Conveying the dread she feels at the prospect of her Life’s Roots departing, leaving her to navigate this callous, cruel and endless world alone, is akin to describing a sharp and poisonous sting of a Cobra. The guilt from her hurtful words to her birth-giver haunts her, a hollowness which she cannot fill, the tears of sadness which she cannot dab. Her past's ignorant transgressions, irredeemable wrongs, echo through her very being, her very soul.

How can she articulate the agonising depths of her being when she witnesses others' suffering? The abysmal abyss of torment she plunges into is unfathomable, the cavernous and gaping hole she finds herself every time in is incomprehensible, a multitude of deaths endured as she witnesses parents, children, and innocents in travail- how can she articulate all of that after all? She is a human, a weak one? Torture seizes her spirit- the gripping and cold hands of pain squeeze her heart until its all red everywhere- at the sight of the guileless, toiling and travailing for those akin to her, burdened by privilege they scarcely deserve.

To elucidate the shame that bows her gaze at a humble elder's meagre repast and restless slumber is a daunting task which she dares not to undertake. Shame for the impotent youth of her generation gnaws at her; a confession of inadequacy. Alas, despite triumphs and attainments, an irksome truth remains— she cannot rescue all deserving souls, a perpetual ache in that weak heart of hers.

It’s all a game of genes- of luck- after all.

No soul, no human, no matter how deeply they delve, how profoundly they traverse to understand her, the pain within her, can fathom these sentiments, and thus she vehemently asserts her entitlement to such claims. She is flawed, yet the scales of wrongs against her also tilt. She embraces the agony, for she acknowledges the sins of her past. She accepts the punishment as just, for that is her Karma and only hers. She has the right to all these suffering which no one has the duty to understand.

In truth, we are mere insignificant and self-serving beings, traversing a harsh, cruel and capricious existence. Life persists regardless of one's grievance, an unfair truth etched into the very birth of humanity and every creature that walks this temporal stage.

Contrary to all she has uttered, a perverse and twisted gratification lingers within her—for once in this eon, the wrongdoer, she, faces retribution, the wrath of Karma, of the ultimate truth in the armageddon of humanity. She relishes this torment, this guilt, this pain, this regret, this numbness, for they serve as her penance for wounding those she holds dear.

The pain is embraced, accepted, revered and in its throes, she finds a twisted solace, a peaceful tornado.

Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay