I’m nothing to anyone. Nothing. Not anymore. All these people out here and I constitute as a blanked out page in this humungous book of the World. No one.
It’s jarring; the ordeal of the knowing. It’s like marching in a room full of unfamiliar people and asking around about how they’re doing in life but not really. They aren’t interested in telling and I’d rather not know. It’s a torture inducing, sick, convulsing mass of utter paper-blank faces staring at me. They don’t wanna know me. They have huge question marks plastered on their identities; heck how could they remotely decipher me. They don’t want me around. As I said, I’m a blank canvas of nothingness. I’m an anomaly. I’m unwanted.
But it’s about a neon orange hue resembling the dying out fire that I’m trying to extinguish that’s setting my soul and my insides on fire from within. It’s so much more than that but it’s a little less than that too. It’s overtly complicated but subtly simple to understand. It’s mind over matter or matter over none. It’s about feeling warm but without having to set oneself alight. It’s about solace. It’s two souls giving each other company; dancing and gliding and growing together.
And I might never get that. I’m rendered to nothingness.
© Rushna Imdad. All rights reserved. Published on February 2, 2017.