Do you wonder when you see a wrist with multiple, shiny, parallel, horizontal scars? Blade Marks or wrist cuts. Maybe you don’t. Why don’t they look unattractive?
Behind every cut is a story. Obviously. Could be anything. Lost love. Breakup. Goodbye. Death. Depression. Something.
Mostly, it’s love. Lost love. About the one you think is the one until the one becomes ‘the one lost’ and so… blade marks. Idiotic. But a huge portion of literature and poetry has been all about love, which has its branches and breaches deeply rooted in lust; but we prefer to call it love.
Writing, talking, and thinking about lips. Gait. Voice. Hair. Complexion. Height. Eyes. No one’s talking about the intellectual capacity of the other one or the conversations that talk beyond the universe. Maybe because that is not what love is.
There’s no ‘one’. Neo was the last ‘one’. Next is… wait.
Anyway, back to the blade marks of the lady behind the counter. Offering ice cream. Wonder how she executed the whole process? To let the pain bleed. Leaving the body. Making tiny paths through the sink. Dumping. Into the gutter.
Yet, pain stays. Because it cannot be bled out. It needs to be kept inside. It needs to be nurtured. Taken care of. Because it stays.
109 billion have died so far in this world. Your ‘one and only’ can’t be from those 109 billion. ‘The one’ must be alive in your time zone to initiate a love affair, that usually starts from lust. You can call it crush. Or cuteness. Or whatever your level of being an idiot is.
Comes the current 8 billion. 4 billion is the other gender. Then 3.99 billion are those you never meet. In the end, it leaves around 50 or so options. Out of which, max 5 would consider you as a partner. And then comes the one. Can lead to divorce. Pretty strong chances. Or it can be a suffering prolonged till one of the two dies. As vowed.
What if you find love later in life? After marriage? Then what? Extramarital affair? For the one?
By the way, if you convert ‘the one’ with ‘another one’; you may score a century.
The algorithm that runs the systems has its errors. Some errors are as idiotic as poetry. There is no ‘one’. It’s an illusion. That’s fine though. People must have reasons to live and reasons to die. I have some. Cigarettes among them.
However, Walli has a major reason. The one in which he has specialized with comprehensively crafted research of 9 years. It will be 9 years this April. This pain starts with M. It’s all in the name of M. Remember that story?
When Socrates had to die to live forever.
When Masur Al Haj had to be insulted to be elevated forever.
When Nietzsche had to get mad to become enlightened.
When Hussain had to bleed to live for generations to come.
And when Dante had to leave for hell so he could write divine comedy.
You don’t remember? You don’t remember Walli?
What if the wrist is clean? No blade marks. No wound. Nothing. Only blue veins neatly passing through the system that generates those illusions? Does that mean no story? No blade marks, no pain? No.
Some bleed once. Some bleed twice. And some bleed forever. They nurture their pain and keep it near their heart as a sacred message for the heavens and hells together.
Have you wondered what if you die with these cuts? Don’t you care about the trauma you give to the pain? Don’t you want to keep it alive? Don’t you want to live by it? Stand by it? And finally, die by it?
Walli doesn’t have blade marks. But he has a story. That story starts with M. And it lives as it didn’t pass through the sink. It lives.
She lives.
What a magnificent story Man! From its opening to the ending. So thought provoking