Whispering Deads
The last year was hard on me, as I watched death closely and her whiff reminded me of my childhood, which was mostly stuck at darkest corners of our dusty roof, and my friends, most of whom were imaginary and lived in mirror and walls, returned with demands of love. I know, they meant no harm, as I took countless adventures with them in a lonely floor or in a past-odoured closet and I saved their lives and they mine, but my heart pumped and breaths weighed just by mere sights of them and I knew I was in trouble. I am not a child anymore, at least not by looks or the decisions I have to make for survival. I don’t have liberty to replace the visions in my nightmares or strength to shut them down, rather I try to live with them and make in peace, and until I am married and fathered and have beautiful souls surrounding me, death was so enigmatic that I almost fell to her mystic ways. The magic to vanish a person forever seemed to be the best way of life one could get. And so when I