in this moment of desperation, he speaks silently. his words are utterly slow and long and soft. his voice low; outwardly tired. tired of life, he always says.
in his room, he would often speak to himself. sometimes, lying on his bed, in the bathroom while taking a bath, or taking a dump, thoughts would come out of his head. interesting thoughts, he would say. well, he is always like that, the bizarre in him, that when he thinks, nothing comes. only in the most sudden time and place those thoughts would come—time and place which pens and papers are inaccessible.
in this moment of desperation, the gap between happiness and being blue, he speaks to himself using the voice inside him. alone. he tells the story of a boy that had no father since seven. the boy was forced to be independent—to learn to stand on his own—bare footed—alone. walking on hot cements and leaning on cold windows of cars, he was forced to do so without a hand helping him. he was forced to beg and find food for himself. he needed to survive.
one day at a time, the boy lived. each day, with his friends in different corners of the city, he learns new things. and soon, effortlessly, he had learned. on his own, he made his own slippers, knitted his own clothes, begged or even stole his own food, and made his own community.
the life he took, or presented to him, was a messy and dangerous one, but he always knew what to do. though he lived his life one day at a time, he had dreams kept in his innermost soul. he wanted to have a future. he had goals in life that made him different from the others in the city. that became his power. his motivation. his inspiration.
one day, out of the blue, a man approached him claiming he was his father. silence filled his heart. he knew the man was telling the truth. the color and shape of their eyes, the shape of their faces, their voice, and even their height were almost the same. then, no sound, no heartbeat, no echo was heard. silence ruled. though surprised, no question was asked. the boy just smiled, for he knew that it was still better. better than being alone and walking bare footed
ring! ring! apparently, he wasn’t alone. the telephone rang. once, twice. then, it went off. the room was silent once again. no sound, no heartbeat, no echo. nothing at all.
he didn’t even bother to stand. actually, he was hoping and expecting that the telephone would stop without him answering.
meanwhile, a thought crossed him. he closed his eyes and tried to grasp it further. he wanted this story. he kept telling himself, he wanted this story. remember. remember. remember.
but as he tries further, the more it faded.
but, another thought crossed him again. this time, it was different. it was more like a memory of some sort. it’s not a story. oh, yes, it’s not a story, but it has stories in them. like a book that has been read more than a thousand times and is opened once more, it brings back the feeling—the joy.
it reminded him of something good. she remind him to stay happy. it is evident in the honesty in his smile.
still, in his room, in this moment of desperation, a force changes his mood. he wasn’t trying to grasp another story nor thinking of some invented instances. clips of memories come naturally. flows and overwhelms his heart. creates and then, leaves the land of being blue. floating. floating.
he stands up, leaves his bed and turns to the unanswered phone a while ago. his thoughts still empty, but his heart overflowing. he puts the phone by his ear and dials. ring! ring!
his voice now different from a while ago. his words now more lively and high.
he smiles, lasts.