"From the first moment I met you, your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others made me realize that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry." Elizabeth Bennet_Pride and Prejudice (2005)
Soundtrack: Your Hands are Cold
The mountains are so soothing, although they
are made of rocks as sharp as steel, and as heavy as a raging sea wave,
bursting from the womb of an infuriated undersea volcano, at the moment of its
scream, while giving birth to its assumably monstrous lava. It’s the cursed
child of Hades, who decided to expel his unborn child, his combination of death
and fire, from whatever he names “world”. His so-called merciful, dark eternity,
which he thinks better than the light of day that this fire shall encounter
through the cold, uneasy birth it’s about to soon witness. This presumably abominable birth should be so
painful for both the mother and the child alike, especially after being torn
apart from each other arms in so young an age, but still not as painful as the
pain I’m bearing within my heart.
The sudden transition from the fire within to
the coldness out; two mediums, which are too contradictory, yet too perfectly
aligned, can break anyone, and I’m no exception. The ignited, passionate fire
within anyone, when interrupted by a sudden greet of an ice cold misery, can
turn their heart to a headstone, petrified in time, with a ridiculous posture
and a texture of a recently polished marble. My pride and love are inseparable
yet this pain will never die. Rejecting the only love that you’ve ever come
across for the sake of pride is more painful than any abominable birth ever
mentioned along the history of mankind, and mythology are not excluded from such
an equation.
Feeling those rocks, as strong and as
unbreakable as I wish I was, and as harsh as I wish I could be, creates within
my heart a dilemma of perfect imperfections. A revolving cycle of truth and
hindrance so astounded by my rebellious thoughts and unperishable voices
hovering about my head. Every blow of wind that hits the standing straight
mountain hits me with equal velocity and magnitude and stings me as a thousand
black arrows piercing my heart at once. It’s a moment of thought and regret and
a hope that one day these uncomfortable feelings, these feelings of disgrace
and guilt and shame and sorrow would perish along the dirt, within the folded
layers of the dear earth to me that has never spilled away my secrets. These
layers of dirt and mud contain within them the tears and pain of so many
unspoken words to the public, yet whispered to their dear, little ears that
would listen and sympathize and show affinity and compassion to one's wounded
soul.
Each time I seek salvation, I come to these
rocks and lay on their hard ground. I lean to them, approach their sovereign,
and speak to their unfathomable wells of secrets, getting crowded by the words of people
just like me, filled with passion and vanity alike. I take a bunch of their
dust in my hand, rub my hands against each other, and feel each grain of sand scratching
against my soft skin, taking away the pain of the words I’ve been yearning for
so long to utter, but prevented by the dull knife severing my courage of
declaring my weakness to the only one person so dear to my heart, yet
enormously far.
I wish if I could just turn back in time, grab
the chance whenever showed possible, fall onto the ground; breaking apart, as I
am now, and say it all at once. I wish if it was possible to tell him how much
I love him, just as much as he loves me. I see it in his eyes, in his air when
he talks, on his lips when he speaks, and in his complicated manners,
reflecting in his gestures, when we’re both around each other. I wish that he
would know that I love him despite of all the venoms we spew against each other
in the last encounter between us. I wish that he would know that if he hadn’t
thought so low of me and so unforgivably stupid, I’d have forgiven all of his
follies. But what would those hopes be of any good now? What change can ever
possibly happen? It’s a dead story, carried away by the wind that hit me
so hard and carried on its way so far by its will. It’s now all bygones of fate
and destiny, which deaths may occur at any better chances of prudent survival. Let
us just hope that we shall never meet again, for each encounter with such
chocking emotions within would kill me a million times per second if not spoken
of immediately. Let us just hope that the wind, travelling so far, wouldn’t
return with the same agony carried away through distance, established by
scruples of nonsensical deviations.
Although I’m standing here, lamenting my
misfortunes of severed courage and unyielding vain, caused by my unbounding
pride, I look at the rocks, which I wish I can identify with, close my eyes to
the cold blow of wind against me, enjoy its sentiments and its promises of
relief, and breathe in its soothing smell, and lose all my pains in its arms
that hug me so tight, comforting me in the sense of a moaning mother, who has
just lost her child to the vanity of his treacherous father.
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