Friday, September 26, 2014

Soul's Empathy

She kept staring at the screen, without blinking. She was just staring at it, her mind was elsewhere. It crawled into the past. She was dragged into the past. Her hands were on the keyboard but she was not typing anything. Then I came out of her, sat next to her, pulled the laptop from her lap and started typing. I started typing what she wanted to type but never did. I typed everything, there was so much to say and I kept on stroking the keys, filling up pages after pages, translating her thoughts, my thoughts, into words. She was still staring ahead, not knowing what I was doing, not knowing what she was doing. She was lost; it looked like she was gone to another world. Her physical existence was here but I could sense how hollow it was. I could see her vacant eyes staring into nothing. I looked at her but then I resumed my typing. I typed and typed. I wrote poems that were in her head, songs she never sang, stories she had to tell, secrets that were hers and hers only. I typed them all out, because I knew them all. Because I was her. Because I wanted someone else to read that. There was so much to say, so much to write about, a lot of thoughts to be processed and translated. I kept on typing and typing, vigorously, pushing the keys, getting relieved after every sentence that I completed typing, knowing that now another of her thoughts will not just stay inside her but it would be read. I felt so good for her. She needed that, she had to take it all out and I was doing it for her, I was doing it for myself. The sun went down the window and rose up again, she was still sitting there and I was still typing. The thoughts and feelings and secrets that she had stored inside all these years couldn’t get typed out in a day. It took me days after days and I filled up pages after pages. When I was almost done writing, I was finishing up jotting down her thoughts. I was winding up, almost on the last sentence. I signed her name, my name, at the end. YU.. when suddenly she jerked, as if coming back to life after a long sleep, she came back to the room where she was sitting. She looked at me, at herself, and then she looked at what I was writing down. She didn’t let me sign her name, my name. She quickly grabbed hold of the laptop, pushed the delete button, and cleared every thought, line after line, which I had written down. She was shaking her head in disapproval. She backspaced everything. She deleted all of those songs and poems and thoughts and dreams. She removed it all.

I looked at her with pleading eyes, I wanted her to stop but she did not stop. She cleared it all. The pages were all white again, with no alphabet that could portray her psyche. Carrying sadness in my heart, in her heart, I quietly went back inside her. I knew what was going to happen next. She had another way to let it all out.


  1. This was exceptionally beautiful.
    Such a beautiful portrayal. I have always thought, that the inside is a separate person. And this one is different.

  2. This is wordlessly beautiful. The depth of emotions has overwhelmed me, but there is also a sense of relatability to the situation.

    Hopelessly Hopeful