The time I am writing this is already past 3AM in the morning. I am just done with the first round of analysis over some creative work by a particular trauma victim. His writing was exceptionally good – therapeutic for him in a sense – that set me in deep wonderment. Though it did not eventually unclasp the locks to his initial dread, it helped him approach death with a much more positive perspective. Surreal as it sounded, probably to more “normal”people like you and me, it was a hopeless situation he was dealing with. One that had only one end, and a horrific one too.
Where the sweet mouth could not move, and the beautiful lips refused to speak, but the Chambers of Life keeps pounding, and pounding, and pounding, beating loud and clear to dear life, attempting to suppress the drowning emotions away, but at the very same time wanting to cry out. Or wail, even. Oh, who would hear? More importantly, who would help? Often the searing pain of even re-enacting the ordeal in the silent, yet tragic mind results in the victim pulling a mask over his face, only to hide the scars that so embolden him. Time over time the mask grows so thick it necessitates a trustworthy companion to walk carefully down the dwindling stairs of terror right into the dungeon, allowing for the past to surface, little by little.
In the case of unjust death, all the victim could possibly do is sit and wait for the minutes to tick by, slowly, dreadfully, wasting and rotting away into disintegration. It is quite an unfortunate thing to realize, but sometimes the laws and politics interfere with the people, and that becomes an absolutely dangerous thing. The truth is that all of us are looking for a purpose in life; some have found it, while others are still searching for it. What is you were looking for your own treasure box of purpose, when out of the blue, someone comes up to you and tells you that you are going to die tomorrow? How would you feel? Or worse still, what if the ground cracks and opens up, consuming all that was once rightfully yours in less than an hour?
With the blink of an eye, one’s locus of control is shattered into a thousand pieces; every sound, every moment is scrutinized in the senses. Everything seems to get out of hand right at the point of time. Social connections are lost, food is gone, the gory scenes of dead people are everywhere – even the air pukes of death. Images of the self in the same state of destruction, with blood streaming from his wounded torso, form in the mind.
But we keep going, do we not? And that is the beauty of it.
PS.: It is about time we get serious.