Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson said.
Maybe that is why it flies away so easily.
Everywhere around me, I see unescapable grief, death, destruction, trauma, sorrow and it feels so tiring. It is tough to stay strong when the very ground beneath you is full of cracks and on the verge of exploding. I have been trying to do whatever I can to help others but I am not sure I have actually done a good job at that. I wish I could resurrect ICU beds or oxygen cylinders or medicines with the wave of a wand but even magic needs faith to survive. And do I have enough of that? No.
Today, a friend required an ICU bed for his dad and I found phone numbers of the hospitals claiming they have them. None of them picked up when he called them, none replied back to our texts either. I felt so,,, helpless. I wanted to stay strong for him, I told him I wouldn’t stop at anything but the truth is, I was freaking out. They’ve found it finally, yet I still am.
It was too close.
I am scared, beyond explanation.
I am scared my most loved ones will be in the same position tomorrow and I won’t be able to help them. Every resource is exhausted, nothing new is available and cases are only increasing hour by hour, second by second.
There is nothing out there, absolutely nothing. No lighthouse whatsoever. I cannot afford weakness, not right now when my friends and my family desperately need me to be strong. I know I have to be strong for them but I want to let go for once. Explode in confetti, maybe.
I’m afraid of falling asleep at night because what if something happens then?
I fear the fears of my past are coming back and wearing me down.
My oxygen levels are alright but I still feel breathless.
I think, somewhere or the other, all of us are like the Qutub Minar right now and the current pandemic is the 1803 earthquake in this story. All of us will (if we haven’t already) lose a part of ourselves together. We will still be okay, and as beautiful as ever, yes, but with unretrievable scars and memories. I’m not sure if I’ve made peace with that yet.
If you’re reading this right now and are able to understand me, maybe even relate to me, I’m sorry. But I’m also glad I’m not alone in this, as selfish as that may sound.
I hope you’ll be okay soon.
And I hope your hope comes back to sing you to sleep once again.
