Indications of life

She entered the room and the thickness of the air was all she was able to take into account at that moment.
Not the blood-stained walls, nor the knee-high dust on the floor. None of this struck her, because she was used to it. She had grown up in a place where death was the only familiarity, the only regular incident. A place nobody knew better than the angel of death; your very last companion.
She had long before forgotten what it felt like to have a family, a house or simply a life. She had burried herself underneath a solemn body and a dead soul in order to stay alive until the day she was destined to follow her ancestors to the world of mystery.
But at that moment she was able to feel life run through her veins...through the smell of death. Never before had she been so close to life; the mystery that scares her more than the moment a child is born beneath the foggy sky of her country, oblivious of its destiny. It was not the fear, but the foreignness of life that creeped under her untidy shirt like a rapist who was just about to deprive his victim of her only possession; the only thing she was able to call hers; dignity.
The sound of the wind that blew through the old, squealing windows screaming for freedom interrupted her stream of thoughts. She was once again brought back to the cruel reality she was obliged to endure like a prisoner...a prisoner waiting for his death sentence.
Why wasn't she able to escape? Why didn't life ever offer her indemnity? Wasn't she even worth a compensation?
It was pointless and no longer even usual to grieve over the dead, that she knew very well by now. The devastated girl with unkempt hair therefore decided to let the air remind her of what she was stripped of; life.
Not a fairytale of carefree nights and relaxing mornings, but instead a life where there are various indications of life other than a beating heart and functioning lungs.

The mother.

Rage. Damage. Screams. Hatred. All silent and silently evolving. All locked up. All hidden inside. Hidden from the outer world. From the fuming, noisy world. From the angry world of busy people. All stacked up into piles in the corners of a round and curvy body. All neatly stocked for a never-ending season of anger. All nurtured by the dullness of a life of deadly routines. All covered up by colourful, fragrant chemicals. All perfectly shaped and arranged into what this world calls a woman.
A woman that boils on the inside, but smiles on the outside. A woman whose soul was sliced into pieces and eaten up. A hollow body whose heartbeat was forcefully replaced by silent screams of suffocating.
A dead yet breathing ghost of a long lost mother.

And she hit the ground.

A push. She was flying. She did not know if it was a dream or if she was really floating in the night sky. But she felt the cold hands on her back, the abrupt push, could hear the screams, feel the dizzyness all over again. And she was flying now for what seemed like eternity. Was she going to die? Was she already dead? Had she ever really lived? She did not know. Her entire life was shattered into pieces. Into tiny slivers of unmatching scenes. Who pushed her down the balcony? Who betrayed her in this very coldhearted way?  Why didn't he confront her? She knew she was going to die now. She knew she would soon hit the ground and turn into a bundle of flesh and broken bones. She knew she was worth nothing, but a headline in some newspaper and an unjust verdict in a corrupt court, now. She knew what they were going to say; that she committed suicide. People are going to judge her. Not even a dead person can rest in this society, she thought. They are going to bury her with enough rumors to keep her awake, even in her grave. She foresaw her social as well as her physical death and was not able to change it. Her mind -crowded with thoughts- said his last farewells to her. She will never be able to finish reading her book again. She will never be able to hug her son again. She was worth nothing, but a memory. And she hit the ground.

I will wait

I will stand alone in the darkness waiting for a sign of a long gone existence. For a dim light that conveys life. I will wait for that split second of breathing. I will wait across the road for any proof of acceptance. For my heartbeat to be acknowledged. I will patiently wait for my thoughts to cling to yours. For my outline to perfectly blend into the night. I will wait for a sparkle of recognition as I cross to the other side. Standing in perfect posture, I will wait for a flicker of tolerance. Just a distant blurry indication of a wish already forgotten. From afar, I will wait for miraculous understanding. For hidden clues. For forewarnings I might have overlooked. I will wait for my declaration of identity; for a yielding agreement on unalienable rights. I will wait for your approach and for your consideration. I will wait for you. Or myself. In the stillness of the night, I will wait for the memory of my abolished self to embed itself into reality.

Their bond

They were always close in location but never in heart. They had built a union of disagreements. They had based a life on mutual distaste. They were unidentical copies of each other yet people could only point out their similarities. They seemingly had everything yet actually had nothing at all. They resembled each other in every way possible but had nothing in common. They were two people that tended to be one person; a person with severe dilemmas. They had built a shell in which they pretended to be happy. They had the same opinion yet never agreed on it. They liked yet hated each other. They were yet weren't together. They had yet hadn't the courage to confront each other. They did yet didn't know each other. They were perfectly forged with hatred and misinterpretation but it was impossible to break that bond.

Meet fear

You were flickering in front of my eyes. I saw you, but nevertheless couldn't look you in the eyes. I was angry, not sure if at you, the world or myself. But I knew I was angry. And you were there. Or only the feeling that I was being observed was clearly there. I knew you existed, but I could not recognize you. You were watching me, but I couldn't see your lineaments. Your mysterious identity -perfectly hidden behind your flickering figure- was overwhelming. Yet everyone knew who you were. Everyone, but my very own self. You were an idea, a flickering spark of a long gone idea. Out of focus, blurred out to an irritating extent yet present. Present and authoritative. You were the spark of my fears, the flicker of my hidden dark imaginings and the igniting light of my imagination. You were in everyone. You were always present, but never really there. You were like a flame, a flame that was impossible to extinguish. You were fear.

Your polite marionette

You insulted me out of delusive love so I beared it out of naïve politeness.
You tricked me with your hypocrisy, so I let you exterminate my character out of politeness.
You expressed physical affection so I let you eat into my self esteem out of politeness.
You denied me the right of identity claiming it was for my own sake so I remained silent out of politeness.
You expressed artificial feelings of concern so I listened to your unjustified, superior admonition without a single complaint out of politeness.
You gave yourself authority you had never earned so I let you control me out of politeness.
You exposed a nonexistent wise side of yourself so I chose to endure your disgracing speeches out of respectful politeness.

In other words, you prohibited my individuality. Except I let you do it out of helpless politeness.
But then again I'll let you die of your condescendence. However, out of pure revengeful politeness.

And that would be the perfect illustration: http://emrasheed.blogspot.com/2013/09/foolishly-polite.html?m=1