I don’t know what that means, but I’ll try.
Maybe a little like gasping for breath in a room full of smoke. Choking your lungs and then struggling to breathe.
Or applying an antiseptic on a fresh wound. And then years later, again.
Also listening to the craziness of your own heart beating against your breath, waking you up from the dream you never wanted.
The fear of being happy. Of being homeless. Of never being able to listen to the soul.
I think it’s more like that little child who is afraid to leave his mother’s side in the darkness of the unlit room, afraid of the monsters eating him up. Or afraid of tumbling over the chair and falling down and hurting his knee and then crying himself to sleep.
Or like these Three Girls by Amrita Sher-Gil.
I call them اعتراف (‘Acceptance’), افسوس (‘Remorse’), and امید (‘Hope’).
Eyes bowed, hearts heavy. If you were to pat them on the back, I doubt they’d even look at you. Their hearts have fallen to the bottom of the dark, deep well. They cannot smile like you and me! Perhaps that’s what exhaustion really is. Perhaps that’s how they hide inside us all, beneath our calm poker faces and Insta savvy smiles and Snapchat filters, dying a little each day, punishing and punishing.
But so what do you do?
You put your forehead to the ground and you breathe it out with each heartbeat. Slowly, with love. And you say, “Please! Please!”
If the sun rises again tomorrow and if you rise with it, then its done and you’re home for all.
You’re home for all.
That, trust me, is the only way.