From the precipice of death, we come back.
This was second coming, not a myth, but I am not sure how long it will last. I am not sure every time the chest pain returns. Like today. As if someone has buried a heavy tusk in my soul. Ivory tusk of indelible beauty but excruciating pain.
The one thing I am sure of is the fragility of human existence. One moment I am in the hospital; another, I am in my own arms in the bed nursing the woman that lives in spite of the blood clots (medical term: pulmonary embolism). At this point, everything is a myth except the experience. Experience is the truth of our human existence. Experience untouched by thought. Pure experience that rests in the body and is felt for what it is, no filters, no rich perspective, no pep talk from strangers.
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I am living in a country where young people are killing themselves. Pain of a previous generation ravaged by sectarian conflicts has seeped into them. Some go to school and disappear. Some are bullied and end their lives. Some end their lives and no one knows why. All we know is that living is hard, dying is easier. While I have died everyday over the past two years and survived, I have seen people around me die or disappear forever. Friends, friends of friends, statistics in government reports, anonymous cases in newspapers. As young as 19. I guess, my pain doesn’t count. No one has to listen but I have to write.
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