A Casual Stroll Through an Inevitable Routine

Writer: Nada Elnady

She was falling. She tried to hold on to the remaining ropes that were tying her to life, the tiny, little things that claimed that they were “worth living for”. She tried to think of a possible, brighter future, one free of hurtful stabs, nasty words, and aching souls. She tried to imagine what she could possibly achieve years later if she just held on a little bit, yet every time she would open her eyes and shush the thoughts, the beauty accompanying the future would pull about the pain accompanying the present along the way. She thought that maybe it all can change, if she just raised her hands to the sky and prayed for an answer from her lord. But every single time, she’d back down and lower them, for she feared she’ll receive none. She knew deep down that she didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve an answer, she didn’t deserve the guidance, and she surely didn’t deserve a speck of his kindness, the kindness that was given to her for free yet wasted without an aim. She never stopped thinking that it was all her fault, yet she never ceased to forget that it actually never was. She went through hell and back trying to cope with it all. She tried to cope with being treated as inhumane. She was expected to embrace the truculence, acknowledge the dreariness, and befriend the loneliness. She had no one understand her, and when she demanded understanding, she was deemed to be ungrateful. She hated it all, for the hatred outran the love and the dolefulness surpassed the exuberance. She would die inside every single day without a shoulder to cry on and an embrace to dwell in. And at the end, she’s met with mockery and contemptuousness. When she found a way to perhaps be able to let it all out, to tame the fire and vanquish the flame by scribbling it down on unburnable paper, she held on it with her teeth and claws, not letting her only source of comfort vanish into thin air after being given to her. She wrote and wrote until nothing was left to write, no tears were left to shed, and no hatred was left to express. Every single time she’d lock herself in her room for hours, doing nothing but scribbling her heart out. She would not dare leave unless she was asked to do so, for pretending to be happy was a routine so usual that if not followed, would lead to an outcome worse than the precedent aftermath. Her body never ceased of bruises, scars that made sure to stay to remind her of every single blow. Her eyes became the epitome of direness, yet she’d make sure she hides it all in. She displayed the brightest of smiles and was never but a goof around all others. They’d envy her for her happiness and would ask her about her secret, not realizing the fact that honesty should not always have to be what’s displayed. She never stopped faking happiness, even when the actual emotion turned into a permanent facade. But a lot of times, her walls would come crashing down in less than seconds just like a tsunami washing away anything that stood in its way, and the time she spent building up their layers would go in vain. Her eyes would suddenly flood with tears and she’d let it all out to anyone at any time, waiting for someone to hold her in their embrace and tell her that it will be fine, that she’ll be okay, and that one day it all will change. But not a single person came, and again, she’s left to cope with it all alone until the loneliness suffocated her and the direness scratched at her skin. She would wipe away her tears, wait for her crimson face to return to its natural white complexion, and move on, throwing bits of love and smiles to every corner she turns into, for she need not see anyone who felt what she was feeling just second ago. Compassion was what conquered all of her, and kindness was what she worked with in life. Yet, if you wrong her, then she’ll never let it go. She’ll cry if you’re a close one since she hated fighting with you, and fight you if you were not of a special place. She could not help her crying. It reached a point were she no longer has control over her eye sockets, and shedding waterfalls became almost involuntary, to the point where she cries over the old and the gold and the pain and the gain. She transformed from a once blooming flower to one that lost a petal every passing day, an emotional mess that hates every second of her existence. She reached a point where writing was no longer a source of comfort, but a diary that stores it all, a diary that stores all the painful moments of heartache and heartbreak. She was crying while scribbling all of this down and kept questioning the motive behind writing it, for at the end of the day, she knew that she’s writing it all in vain.