“The sun hid behind the clouds. It was a black and white kind of colourful day. My feet sweaty from nervousness and fright, and my palms, waiting to hold a freshly brewed cup of caffeine, waiting to kiss my escape, and play tongue with the taste of it.
There was no wind that day, but there was essence. The essence of heavy silence. The precedent of uncomfortable loose thoughts like threads from a torn cloth. An essence that always lingered like a question unanswered.
My mind spoke to me, or did it?
The peculiarity of normal things is that no one talks about it and because no one talks about it, it’s normal.
Vulnerability, however, is pretty normal, yet not spoken about.
Considered a weakness, vulnerability is looked at with shadowed eyes of plastered strength.
There is a demand to be stone.
There is a demand to be concrete.
“It is beautiful to be vulnerable” somebody once told me and I wondered,
if it would be beautiful for me to panic, with a terrible heart ache like when a spear is stuck inside it, and I can’t pull it out,
if it would be beautiful to break down in the middle of the night while everyone around is dancing to music and your ravenous mind is waiting to devour you whole.
I wondered if it would be beautiful to tell someone that I’m insecure about my appearances, I know I shouldn’t be, I know I show I’m confident but I am.
I wondered if it would be beautiful if I woke up screaming from a nightmare almost every night because someone taught me to be afraid of the dark when I could barely understand what this world was about.
I wondered if at all vulnerability was beautiful, and I realised it was. It was beautiful because it was like looking at somebody’s naked soul, nothing to hide,
but the world does not the naked soul beautiful.
The world is in love with a thousand levels of mendacity, and here we are,
hating the truth
hating the fact that we as humans are, after all, vulnerable
because, come on,
aren’t we too?”