We come with labels dangling loosely from our earlobes. We think of ourselves as newly bought t-shirts; we tear off the labels with impunity. Some labels caution us; they urge us to comply with regulations. I've torn 51 labels; I've discarded 51 warning to reaching happiness. Here I am, sprawling feebly on my bed, declaring 51 different types of failure. The holy book has been abandoned on dust-covered shelves. The Qur'an has been left, untouched. Another 51 books have been read. I've walked in 51 roads. They all ended in agony and confusion. They all ended in a bruised soul, consumed gruesomely from pursuing catchy mirages. I admit complete uselessness in seeking what leads to unlabeled places; to wrecked towns falsely referred to as heavens. I urge you to not go there. There are 51 towns that I've visited. Clouds roll over their bleak skies. They're silent towns, with crickets screeching nosily. They are gusty. Winds pick up speed and shove whoever passes by these towns; these winds shove aggressively, hustling whoever passes by them to the ground, face down. Caution them, caution the glamour, and caution mistreating your soul. Caution the 51 towns of stifling sadness and agony. Caution looking into clear mirrors and seeing a dark reflection of a very handsome-looking figure. Beware of the beast within. Beware of a call that comes from inside; a call that induces visiting any of the 51 silent towns. Beware of yourself and how it can drag you down. Resort to the dust-covered book, shelved within your reach, resting peacefully with a mystifying charm. Sift through its pages, eye it thoroughly. Let it cure a soul that has been killed for 51 times; Gunned down with false ambitions.
Listen, listen carefully. Rest your hands gingerly on your pounding chest. Every pound is a call sent from within. No, it's not your heart pumping steady streams of blood; it's your soul pounding wearily on your aching chest. Interpret the encoded signals; they're squeaky screams for help, listen before they turn into consuming invisible stabs. Life style no. 52 is in trial. It sure will imply failure. I know, even before adopting it. I know it's a choice inspired by wrongfulness. Another journey I am going to embark on; another crowds I will chase; another glamour floating aimlessly in the air will be pursued. Another me will ache, silently will my soul suffer. They will spot my meticulously drawn smiles; they will presume that I am happy. The dust-covered book should regain its luster before I ache for good. I need it; I need its owner. I implore for his help. I resorted to 51 owners of 51 silent towns and they've failed me painfully. I no longer want to walk alone in silent airs, bathed in shimmering street lights, standing in for the blanketed moon, covered by thick swarms of clouds. I want to taste something instead of bitter drinks. I want to embrace comfort. I need to poke my soul with a jagged wooden stick, knowing that it will dawn vigorously.
Caution passing by evil silent towns. Carefully read what's on their wrecked polls. Spin around swiftly whenever you hear hungry creatures shuffling eerily, stretching their hands in front of them, wanting another you to thrive on. Beware of the glamour, the addictions and pains shall run past you peacefully if you held on to the book that casts its protective spills on your squashed spirit.
The dust-covered book on the low shelf, the bookmark resting between the first two pages. Hoist it highly in your hands, silently eye its words. Meditate carefully, and let it heal your spirit, let it spare it the 51 stabs and bring it back to life. August 17th, life style no.52 shall be abandoned wisely.
--------------------------------------------
ιиѕριяє∂ ву: A moment of stifling shame.