Volume 11 Issues 2 February, 2021
We always remember the blazing flame, the last few moments of spark.
But what about the ash that remains, and then the eternal dark?
Sadness comes in waves, but guilt?
Guilt wants to watch us drown.
The first thing you remember is the last thing they said.
And the last thing you remember is every time they wished they were dead.
A dry humour, “Bro, I’d rather die.”
And they did. They did die.
And the next time someone says these same words, you wonder.
You wonder if you should’ve realised; if this was your blunder.
It is jarring to realise that existential crises are ‘relatable’ to the youth.
Millennial humour is our way of coping to a pain that will never soothe.
But what else are we supposed to do?
After the waves of sorrow and pain, comes a tsunami of regret.
The times you didn’t pick their calls, the times you couldn’t stay.
The times you dismissed their concerns, the times you made them pay.
The debt is forever unfulfilled- a friendship severed abrupt.
Regret serves no purpose, it doesn’t cause enough hurt.
Self-blame, on the other hand, kicks you right into the dirt.
You should’ve seen the signs, you should’ve done something.
In their last few days, what joy did you bring?
It’s hard to deal with loss, and self-loathing is an excellent distraction
But after some point, it too loses its traction.
The first laugh after bearing loss brings with it, insurmountable burden.
You laugh. You smile. And then the smile fades and you pause.
Because for a fraction of second, you forgot about the loss.
How can you forget about the loss, when the loss is all you are?
The smile stays off for a while, and you are jarred.
Even an inkling of happiness feels like a disrespect to their memory.
And so, you delve into a cycle of pain, sorrow and worry.
A new form of guilt lounges in your head, rent free.
The guilt that you are living, and the world is yours to see.
That you get to breathe, to smile, to just…be.
Time does not heal all wounds; it just makes you forget.
You miss their face, their eyes, the way their voice is set.
But after a while, the edges of memory get blurred.
You forget their gait, and their favourite word.
The self-loathing has stopped, and you’re too tired for the pain.
All you can do is try to honour their memory, even if it’s in vain.
Years later, you’re watching a movie, and the intrusive thought interrupts-
“She would’ve loved this, wouldn’t she?”
And it hits you- how much of the world she was yet to see.
So you do what you must do,
And you try to see more of the world, on behalf of them too.
