The Tyrannized Truth

Perhaps it is due to the love I have for words that they define reality for me. The world begins and ends, alike a sentence; from a capital letter to a full stop. Nothing is real other than words, not even the thoughts that keep me up at night and haunt my being for every day that I am awake, every day that I breathe.

What isn’t real isn’t capable of hurting me and what isn’t said out loud for the world to hear or given the shape of alphabets isn’t real

And so, I carry realities inside me that do not exist and secrets that will never be proclaimed. I let them cut through me as much as they please, make room for themselves. I stitch myself up because that is easier than believing: something that isn’t under my bed could hunt me alive. It is easier than watching the havoc that is inside my mind turn to reality, turn into a beast. A beast that can look me in the eye, that needs to be tamed, that demands being real, that is real, as real as the taste of blood in my mouth.

God stands witness to the effort I put into denying the reality that hasn’t yet been birthed outside the prison of my mind. I exhaust myself throughout the day so I can fall into slumber as soon as my head hits the pillow, put on music as I do the dishes so my mind doesn’t wander, and read and read and read about things that don’t even matter because heaven forbid I slip into the rabbit hole that is a cadence of everything I am afraid of. But I tend to forget that this is not just about me, it is the two of us at play; me and everything I repress.

And as for the latter, the tyrannized truth, it has a way of hiding and creeping into corners. It treads silently yet its steps confirm a lurking presence, one that demands attention. Maybe it is my own fault, after all, I mistook it for being alike a lamp blowing off under the coffin of silence. Whereas, it doesn’t leave you alone yet doesn’t properly stay. And what was destined to happen ages ago happens; the clock stops ticking for a mere second, the deceitful creature inside me skips a beat, and everything begins to play before me.

I can hear the screaming inside my head get louder as if the barrier finally collapsed and I want nothing more than to vomit it out, drag it out of my being, but I can’t put it to words. A fluctuating caret stares back at me, the page still wordless.

What is wrong?

What is wrong?

What is wrong? I ask myself.

My thoughts are deprived of ink, they wish to be heard yet, why can’t I let them flow? Why can’t I be free? When will this screaming stop?

And it doesn’t take a lot, it never does, for the deafening silence to scream a response back at me; the price for this freedom shall be solace, relief, and consolation; all the synonyms of comfort. It would mean accepting that once upon a time, I was someone who does not exist anymore.