In the chilly hours of the morning, the wind blows incessantly. A wind that I might have once enjoyed, tickled by the goosebumpy freshness it brings to the skin and exhilaration it evokes. But not any more. Inside a body that seems to spew up convolutions every time I sneeze or cough, the wind seems a stark reminder that happiness does not stay. Like the wind it shifts. Like the wind it is only for a few to enjoy or a few moments to feel happy about. I want to look back on this moment and some time in the future be able to say, “I thought that was it but I’ve come through it” Except I shall not use the words unscathed. Because to a body that wants to be whipped by the wind mercilessly and yet exult in the joy of the whipping, isolation in the confines of a rough blanket is scathing. It hurts. Sometimes fate is merciless. It trips you up and then unapologetically lets you know it wasn’t accidental. Then punches you in the face and shows you the way to the hospital. Because that is the only way I can explain the past few weeks. Being disappointed is bad enough. When you won’t be allowed to be disappointed in peace? That takes you to a whole new spiral of dejection. When the mind is all geared up to shut down for a few weeks so that the blissful release of depression can take over it is then that the body starts shutting down. Now the mind cannot do the same. Because unfortunately for you, age is on your side. The mind needs to help the body recuperate and puts its own problems on hold. And the stubborn ass of a body becomes hot and cold and bleeds and wails and doesn’t settle. And all this while you are aware that the mind is only functioning because it has to, and is on stand by mode, and will put up a fight of its own once the body is fine. How they play with the helpless, innocent soul trapped between them.
And all the while the wind is blowing fiercely outside, teasing and teasing, maddeningly teasing the soul out of its wits.