Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Relax your diaphragm. Repeat.
This was my mantra,at least, these days it was. I tried to narrate myself that these three steps would make everything better, or would make the way I feel better. But I don’t really think they effect. I can see the city lighting up from my window. I know that external,people are getting alert to leave their houses, and venture out into Karachi’s beauty. I’d be a portion of it too, and if I could,if I knew how. But the bars on my windows are too strong. They skew my vision as I lean forward trying to catch a glimpse of anyone, anything; a sign of life external these four walls. The walls are painted a dim grey. The single bed I sleep on has a dead grey sheet on it. There's a table in the corner, or it's a pale grey too. Seems fitting.
I think of the protagonist of ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’,I imagine that my walls have women trapped inside them too, dancing and luring me towards them. But I wasn’t that girl, and no matter how many people in here tried to narrate me I was. I knew that within these four walls,I had to be who they wanted. So I did. I ate the food they gave me, I stared at the walls and pretended I wasn’t thinking about anything even though my thoughts spanned faster than I could breathe. Thoughts they said I shouldn’t be having but at the same time, and thoughts that I would always have. I couldn’t succor being an over thinker,I guess it was what got me here in the first place. That and the fact that I was always too curious. My mom said I was too curious for a girl, always questioning things that have no need to be questioned. But I never believed her. I wanted to know why we ignore and placate over everything in this society.
But it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered within these four walls. I think of Blanche DuBois. Would it be my saving grace to be like her? possibly I didn’t want realism anymore. Would that make this place more bearable, or more habitable? Everyone else in here is unstable. I don’t understand why I’m even here.
I don’t think I’ve seen my family in over three months. I miss the sound of my mother’s voice calling out that it was time for bed. I miss the hum of music coming from my brother’s door. I miss having food that was actually a substance,not just goo. But you dont get to be picky in here.
I don’t know what it is about the onslaught of summer that makes me feel this way. My heart grows feeble. My body is fatigued. I pretend I’m listening to ‘Modern Girl’ on repeat. Sleater Kinney is my serenity. It takes over my body making me nostalgic for a time I don’t even think I wish to relive. But that's the thing, I am always wanting more. Out of people, and things,my life, but mostly, and myself. I can never be who I ultimately want to be. I can never effect it because I am feeble. I am tired and oh,I am so alone within these walls.
I wake up feeling like I don’t exist. Days pass and I have no conversations that mean anything. possibly they effect. But not to me, not anymore. I’m aching to be heard, and to be felt,to be at least understood. But no one gets it. My pain. Is it genuine? effect I imagine it half the time? possibly it’s this place, that’s what my mother used to say. Back when she visited me. But that time passed nearly forever ago. I stopped thinking about time as something genuine. It is intangible, or but in here,days effect not fade into nights. People sleep at any and every time. They sleep to drown out the voices of the crazy ones; sleep so they don’t have to swallow their pills, sleep so they just don’t have to be any more. Because sleeping ceases everything, and even time.
I pick up my journal from under my bed. It’s worn out,and the only thing I was able to bring with me. But it’s my solace. If they knew I had it, I’d be in trouble because thoughts that aren't synonymous with their thoughts are not allowed to be documented or spoken of. And I was documenting it all.
I start writing. I write poems because my intellect is too numb for prose. I write free verse, and haikus and sonnets. Not really about anything but just about something. So I try writing more. I know theres a story somewhere within these walls. There always is. I just need to find it.
possibly one about the girl who screams every night. Or the girl that pulls out her hair every time she sees me. Hmm,nothing is appealing enough. My pen is nearly out of ink. I lie back and read and re-read my poems out loud.
There’s someone coming. She pushes my grey door open; she is also clothed in grey, like me. Her hair is tied in a tight bun and it looks like it really hurts, or but her eyes,her eyes are what I really see. Theyre angry. I don’t know why, It’s not like she’s trapped in here. I realised a long time ago that there are so few people out there that you meet that are genuine. And she sure as hell wasn’t one of them.
She’s holding my medicine in her hand, or I can see the injection. Sharp and encompassing of all the evils this place offered. She doesn’t say a word but I know she sees my eyes. I know she sees life inside them. And she wants to ruin it. As I think this,I feel the shock of the injection going into my left arm. Just like that, I am lulled into oblivion.
I wake up with no feeling in my arms or legs. My body is numb. I try to get up but I can’t. My head feels heavy. I look at the walls. I see the women. They are crying out to me, and calling me. Somehow,I am able to move towards them with all the ease of the world. They stick their arms out towards me. I hear them whisper that this will be my haven, my escape. So I crawl further towards them and let them take me in.
Source: tribune.com.pk