From my Diary - Part 2

“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic, fear which is inherent in the human situation” (Graham Greene)

There she went, walking in the rustling ochre, cracking leaves of the captivating autumn, for others it might have been captivating because of the fallen pallet making a carpet of crimson, rose madder, pale hue, burnt umber.

For her the captivity was internal, external, she wanted to break the spell. By crushing the leaves under her bare feet, she wanted to break this prison too, but where to go, how to escape, she ran and ran and ran as fast as she could till the sound of her own breath became so loud that she thought it will pierce her ears, her eardrums would tear apart, her ears would start bleeding and her head felt heavier at each panting sound, the panting was like hammering her open brain – it was squashing her tender brain. She kneeled down her hands still on her ears, her white dress covered with pieces of leaves. She shut her eyes and started reading the chant, with each word the cage of her environment became tighter, choking her, but she kept on reading. She knew she would be able to break this cycle momentarily if she finished the prayer like the priest promised. She felt the trees coming closer, their branches making a thorny canopy, the leaves started flying in a circle around her, the hammering sound, the panting was echoing. The stronger the force of the enemy became, the louder her words became. She thought she would die for once and for all, this misery would finish, the enemy would finally takeover, and now she was fed up she wanted the enemy to take her, even crush her brutally, tear her, dash her head, do anything, but make this stop, make this end.

But deep inside there was hope – hope that one day her suffering would end. She would enjoy the sunlight which instead of piercing her eyes would give her warmth, the rain instead of making her heart cry, would “wash away her tears”. And this hope made her read the prayer until she said “Amin”. And things became normal again, in order, or for the time being at least.

Albeit she knew, her suffering would return but she didn’t want to spoil her relaxation after her drenching experience. She got up, cleaned her dress, took a deep breath and started walking in the direction she came from, never planning to return to this lurch, but deep inside she knew “which way (she) flies is hell (she herself) is hell”.