The doors closed on everything that she thought she knew and she turned to face the road that was before her. It was unsteady and her hand shook as she held the sword. Did she have what it would take? She couldn’t kill anyone. She knew that for sure, but she had to fight, fight for those who had no one to stand up for themselves.
All she could see were the faces of the lost and the lonely begging for her to be their deliverance. She doubted herself and more than anything feared corruption. She had watched as people gained power and became, in her eyes, polluted by the responsibility bestowed upon them. What if that was to happen to her? What kind of world would she create? Would she be the bringer of darkness instead of light?
But the price of silence was too high. Every day she watched the bombs dropped on unsuspecting and innocent children. Not that the adults were deserving of such an onslaught, but the juxtaposition of the characterisation of all muslims as terrorist and the purity in the eyes of the children as they stared at the camera was jarring.
What would her next step be? Who could she rail against? Was that really the way to freedom? She could hear chants of “from the rivers to the sea” ringing in her ears and it just reminded her of the Irish struggle for freedom from Britain. Some would say that the county was still labouring in a state of dependency and partition against their former colonisers. But violence only bred more violence. What had white people done? Were they, or “we” really the demons that we seemed to be? Could we really extinguish life upon this planet and would she just be led down the same road?
But if spirituality had taught her anything, it was that there is a core of purity in every human heart. It is about tapping into that peace that will bring redemption to the human race, as we realise that brother and sister are one.
And in the evenings the dread would settle into her bones. It was as though there was some amorphous darkness that threatened to kill everyone she knew and love. The threat of grief was real. It was what had propelled her into a mental hospital and into the arms of care workers to save her from the threat of loss. And it has to be mentioned, suicide. She knew that impulse only all too well. There were days when the pull towards non existence seemed as sweet as a summer day. She wondered if it really was death she craved or only the absorption into the Supreme that death represented.
She had been struck by lightening many years before and it had shown her that death was not the end she had previously assumed it was. It was not permanent, except to say that you are reunified with that which is permanent. She rejoiced for the lives of her grandparents, the ones who she thought she had lost. And yet her trials were not over. It would not be long until her earth would be shattered by the loss of a close friend, indeed of someone who she had tentatively begun to love. It was as though a bullet had pierced her heart, as though the very ground beneath her had been shaken, like a quarry blast or an earthquake.
All she could write was “no words, no words”, for death had left her voiceless. Where had he gone? Was he really departed, for he was so youthful and so vibrant? His heart beat for life and her heart surged whenever he would smile his beaming soul into hers. She disassociated. She remembered that day, sitting in Rosie’s café. She felt the shattered glass pierce every part of her that was. His funeral, his funeral. She locked that heart away inside her tight, until one day, unsuspecting another star streaked across her sky. That beautiful boy. He had messy hair and strands of a beard on his young chin. And he was heaven to her. It was as though life had burst its way onto her scene again. It was as though she was allowed to be alive again. She felt happiness, a happiness like she had only ever known in her childhood. Could she really trust this? If she did, would he be taken from her too? Would he be ripped from her grasp? Would death march in and steal him from her? She could almost cry sitting beside him on the bus that day. She felt her spirit soar. His eyes met hers and they seemed replete with something she couldn’t put her finger on.
Then years passed. She didn’t see him again. Til, one day, she just decided she had to tell him. He had to know. She spilled her secrets onto a screen and watched as the water escaped from her hands. It seemed as fluid as sands slipping out between the cracks in her fingers. There was no turning back from there. And she felt his anger burn her skin. The window cracked and the pebbles of the shatterproof glass flew in her direction. “NO!”, she screamed, but it was fruitless. It had been the point of no going back.
He is happy, she is told. He has a girlfriend, she was told. He doesn’t need you, she was told. But she kept a shred of him locked away in her secret soul. It was something no one could take from her, not even him, not even death, not time, not gods or demons.
But was it enough. Should she cross that bridge once again. Should she let herself love. Let that darkness escape from the place where it seemed to burrow into her like a boil. I looked up at the sky and the sun rained down its rays. “It is time”. It is time.
The Poetry Book 