In a modest room with a blend of traditional and modern décor, she tried to settle down on her floor bed. She snuggled in her blanket. She cuddled with her pillow. She was making herself comfortable with everything surrounding her. Because comfort was all she wished for.
As she sat on her bed, she released her stiffed neck and allowed her wrecked nerves to feel the comfort of plushy pillow. She stretched her legs and released them after a minute or two to release the pain. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes with a book in one hand while the other hand was toying around with a pen.
“Am I in a transit?” She thought. “Yes I am. I am in the middle of some transition. I am transitioning from an emotional turmoil to another emotional breakdown. It is the end of turmoil and a beginning of a new turmoil. I think I am falling apart. Or I believe I am drowning along. I am not yet there but I am definitely transitioning.”
She opened her eyes, opened her book to read. She skimmed through the pages randomly and settled at one paragraph at page 75:
“The melancholy firmness of a hero, careless of his fate, conscious of his danger, but still deriving a well grounded hope from the resources of his own mind.”
“Where did I go wrong? Did I make a wrong attempt or did I deliberately invited this erroneous decision by being aware of the fact that it will go wrong but let’s not worry about it now. Let’s live today. Let’s love today.”
She stopped thinking and skimmed through few more pages and settled at page 83:
“And finally dismissed them with the choice only of submitting to his unconditional mercy or awaiting the utmost severity of his resentment.”
She stopped reading. Took a deep breath and thought,
“After all the resentment, I gave in. I chose submission to something I denied all the way for 3 years. With the submission and devotion, who would have thought that things would be this complicated, tormenting and agitating to even begin with? No one. Not me, to say the least.”
She skimmed through her book again, moved her fingers restlessly through the book, toyed around with the book cover and settled at page 121:
“Who encouraged not any arts except those which contributed to the gratification of their pride or the defence of their power.”
She stopped for a moment and felt too restless to focus. It was the most agonizing moment of her night when she couldn’t fathom her existence.
“Am I dead?” She thought. “My inner disconnect and my apparent existence are in so much contradiction that I almost forget if I exist anymore or not. How unfathomable I have become.”
She felt tears in her eyes. She held them back.
“Oh don’t embarrass me now. At least let me confess. Let me review my agony. Let me face the contradiction. Let me connect.”
She again composed herself. Focused on the book and skimmed through the pages and settled at page 125:
“But as truth and reason seldom find so favorable a reception in the world, and as the wisdom of Providence frequently condescends to use the passion of human heart and the general circumstances of mankind….[….]”
She couldn’t focus. She poured some water in glass and sipped it slowly. She thought:
“Should I communicate my transit? Should I communicate my agony, my breakdown, my inability to handle another turmoil. Should I? Or should I bury my dreams, my imagination, the colorful pictures I drew, the unsaid conversations I had in my mind and the unlived moments I lived in my little world of vulnerable realities?”
She went through pages again and settled at page 127:
“Silence is indeed very consistent with devotion.”
Silence. Yes, silence.
She read and reread this phrase and broke down in tears, lost her control and allowed herself to fall apart and drown away with the agonizing regret of devotion, submission and silence with a new promise to keep her devotion sacred with her silence.
She closed the book, snuggled up in her bed and tried to consolidate her dreams in coherent manner…..