A Self-Pitying Victimisation

I’m screaming silently out into an endless abyss and the voice only falls unto my ears—ears that turn as soon as the first vibration reaches them, that hide behind the same hands that stifle the gasping voice before it makes its way past the tongue, that act like an ignorant mother who pretends that her baby isn’t crying when her eyes have become sandstorms, devoid of any light, that bleed with the black blood that fills the abyss every time the sun withers away to die.

Can you tell if it shows when the light slowly leaves you, leaves my eyes? Or maybe it simply gets lost in the darkening gradient of the sun and its dying.

I’ve come to the abyss again—the abyss that overflows, that drowns, that overflows again. The abyss that trembles from your shadow, that still isn’t enough to kill you, that still tries. How does it feel to be a protector of something that doesn’t want to be protected? How does it feel to protect something that doesn’t deserve your protection? 

Does it feel like you are making things up again (being selfish, self-centred, up on the moral pedestal for their judgement?) or does it feel like a punishment (that kills you, doesn’t kill you, should’ve self-combusted and taken you with your morality in a blink?) 

You, with your death sentence, how does it feel to have the ghosts laugh in your face? How does it feel to turn around and meet only you like it’s a mirror maze of criminals and their case?

I look down at my hands (and the chains carefully tied). They weren’t supposed to burn, they were just supposed to be chains, but when the perpetrator chooses the justice, it can only be the easiest or the worst path you take. The chains seemed too easy so now I pour acid on them before they are tied. The acid is my escape but the acid only burns for a minute before it heals and the chains go back to just being chains. 

Maybe you can help me out, maybe you know of an acid that will not fade with time?

I hear the clangs of the chain as I run, as I stop, as I sit still with my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth—I hear the chains but then only I hear them. 

Maybe the chains aren’t real if you can’t see them? Maybe this is victimisation, self pity, a self-pitying victimisation attempt? Maybe the acid has washed away your eyes, your humanity, brought you to kaliyug (but then maybe you have always been its first tenant)? Maybe the acid has eaten through the chains? (but then that useless acid couldn’t even eat through my hands.)

I sometimes feel the chains getting caught on things that I scatter around me. I feel them pulling and pulling and pulling on me, but then the chains fail me again. “I have to tie them tighter this time,” I repeat again to myself. 

Sometimes I wonder how many more tyings can you take? How many till the chains are too tight and the hands not enough to be at stake? When do the chains replace my hand? When do they become one? Will I still keep tying them tighter and tighter and tighter still? 

How many more tyings till the chain doesn’t fail? Till the chain becomes just right, till it is justice that triumphs?