The sweep of the landscape was liberating. It filled in my claustrophobic tendencies with a spatial endowment that in itself was a sort of blessing. The corrugated tin roof jutting out over my head crowned my sense of exhilaration. And pregnant horizon, giving birth to a glowing sun, a falsity of inching close to a dawn of hope ; away from the now exasperated state of my mind.
The letter arrived just yesterday; a week after I first heard about the incident. I failed to decipher the meaning of her words. It was written in ambling way; touched corners, here and there, and then, looped into another long winding maze of thoughts. That she habituated a plane of her own, a hell of imagined pain and misery, was evident from the many chats I had had with her; but the depth of that morass and its venomous mutilating of her psyche was only evident now. I had but touched the peripheries of her mind and had thought her to be yet another case of escapist personality.
Through words she tried to convey a meaning that my practical mind could not fathom. “It is like a spider ...clawing at my nerves and weaving a sticky web that sucks out my sense of self...leaving me a stranger in my own body... a duality that refuses to accept both this and that part of the story...yet condemned to live each and understand each”, she had once moaned.
A pain without any essence, a pariah without a cause, a departure without a loss.
