Voukah [Voo-kah]; home

Dreams

A burst of blinding light like imprisoned fireflies in a tiny box, then a dither into nothing. A blankness. A bleakness. An obscurity.

Jackhammer to a steel beam, a cacophony of sounds, and a screech that rattles the prefrontal cortex and nanomizes thoughts. A migraine.

What it’s worth is not worth what it is. Heaving, gasping for air in a place with the cleanest, most pristine wind. Dehydration in the freshest of water. Distortions. Incapacitate.

Dreams become feathers. Material, but light and weightless. In another world, perhaps, we can feel the weight of dreams. But I’m here in a world I don’t belong. An anomaly. An alien. A juxtaposition between a human and a person. An unspectacularly ephemeral being.

Trees. Finding the upper limit of the sky, but will never make it before something burns them down. Deforested. Sheared by the human intervention.

Unfettering. Undying. Untying.

Undesirable. Unfinished. Unforgiving.

None of these words adequately describe the turmoils of an isolated heart.

Pitiful. Ridiculous. Cretinous. Arduous.

Words that describe a burden to vivacious minds.

Indecent. Inopportune. Inconvenient.

Diction that describes the role of a longing soul in a progressive society.

Tattered. Vivisected. Indolated.

Vocabulary for a damaged spirit.

Should. Would. Could.

All for a disgustedly melancholic being.

Like being me.

Tasteless. Leathery. Overstayed. Ataxic.

You’ve done what you needed to do. Now perhaps it is time to move on.

The train ride was eventful and pure, filled with dreams and aspirations and satiety. But now you’ve passed your stop 10 times and the tracks just keep getting rougher and rougher.

Most people never have to get off this train called life, but sometimes seats need to vacate. Someone has to pay for a transaction that was never made. Someone needs to be accountable for a crime never committed. Someone needs to go.

I’d say I wish I’d have volunteered to go, but I’ve already been chosen. Such a comment is robbed from its chivalry. It is just a job that needs to be done.

Soon, my stop will come, and there will be no consolidation. No mourning. No mural in the galleries of hearts. Just a routine happening. A relief, even. Or complete catharsis to the world.

I could cleanse the world of me. A small nova of iridescence and a vacuum. There would be one less plate to set. One less seat to reserve. One less salary to pay. One less petrified heart to bear. One less voice in a melange of billions. Not even an echo.

Two more stops before it’s mine. Admire the view across a pristine window – so transparent you’d be convinced it was immaterial. But you can’t touch the flowers, feel the wind or taste the rain. You can only sweat from an unbearable sun.

You have been to this stop before. There is no platform. No number. Not even an announcement. All you see is your feet facing down an abyss. An oblivion. No sea to save you. No flora to admire. No birds to sing. Just a dry cataclysm and many other lifeless, eviscerated bodies. Emasciated. Longing.

Soon, perhaps, you may add to this collection. Not even a sadist bothers to look down.

Doors open. Not even greeted on this coach. Don’t expect a farewell. Don’t expect appreciation.

Expect, instead, of relief. Expect a few smiles unseen. Expect a cloud of melancholy to fall with you.

Pulverized bones. Punctured pupils. Arms swinging back like a damaged figurine. All accompanied by a satisfying crunch.

And you will, too, become a speck in an abyssal canyon of rejection.

A world

Perhaps I’ll find a world where water flows upwards.

Perhaps I’ll find a world where beings hop from cloud-to-cloud to find home.

Perhaps I’ll find a world where soil is effervescent and the ceilings of our homes are made of wool, arabesque textiles and ice foundations.

Perhaps I’ll find a world with such uneven grounding that falling is just a routine, mundane feat. It’d just be a simple quirk that all common spirits share.

A world, perhaps, I would belong in.

A world so preoccupied with the drifting winds and scattered, harmless rain that companionship was never a requirement. A burden. An artifact.

A world so complex, romantic quarrels and infidelity would be so trivial and unequivocal to the changing tides. A world so gloriously inefficient that hunger was not an isolated problem – everyone would sympathize with starvation and drought. A world where self-evisceration isn’t seized as an opportunity to advance someone’s political and social stature. No wishing you could have done something. No wishing you had said what you wanted to. No bullshit wishing in a bullshit memorial.

Would such a world in such disarray be a world in calamitous peace? A way of unity? The birth of a eschatological world?

Would this be a world where you lived, or a world you died?