“Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.”
W.B. Yeats
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.”
W.B. Yeats
~
The pale morning awakens and the time is ticking. Time is ticking and the drops rain down on the naked asphalt like a relentless anxiety attack. The incessant fluid motion orchestrates a focused flood on the most vulnerable pores in his soft skin. Time is ticking. His hidden hardened shell is progressively broken down and its shattered pieces find a temporary home in his throat -- alongside the disfigured bits of vengeful teeth and an expired chocolate bar. Time is ticking. The sidewalk reeks of his smell. Time is ticking. The raindrops that felt like bullets now feel like bombs. Time is ticking and the scene is set to the loud music of innocent laughter, of criminal voices in his head. Time is ticking. The bullied child stands up and walks a few steps. Time is ticking. The deafening honk of the speeding bus doesn't hurt as much. Time is ticking. Who's laughing now? Time stops. And the asphalt is dressed in a heavenly red.
Internalized pain and repressed anger. The little girl loves to play hide and seek with her silent imaginary friends and awkward cartoon heroes. She likes to run and she's not sure time exists. Most of all, she enjoys painting her walls with small stickers, secretly thinking that if the magical glue sticks well, the expensive stickers could heal invisible wounds while her favorites ones would silence surrounding screams. Now, she's sitting alone, in the back of the school bus, making up musical tunes with her lips and listening to them at the same time. She doesn't know what the autistic spectrum is. Everything stops for a moment -- even the moment, even her music. She ignores the panic and loudly laughs behind closed eyes and a quiet smile to counter the negative ambiance. A while later, she blinks. Everything goes back to normal -- her normal. She looks up through the window and grins. And then she sends an honest kiss to her clear sky. She looks down at her asphalt and does the same thing. In her eyes, they both wear a chocolate violet blue.
That's not how you spell 'Faith', said Religion.
I was born in a place that smells like adult perfume, in a time that tastes like deception and corruption. You never knew me as a child. Or, perhaps, in a way, you did. I don't know what's going on, really. I just hope that we are unknowingly weaving our future stories beyond this overwhelmingly complex pattern of delusion. And I hope that one day, the kids will be alright.
For now, let there be light and many, many shadows. Blessed be the heart that glued faith to its walls. And blessed be the child who survived, the child who remembers. And blessed be the brave.
~
“Don't be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth.”
Rumi
Rumi