Oddbean

On Coincidences #It'sOn I was just sitting on my sofa, head down, my hands covering my eyes in a pose of utter distress. Why you may ask? I am waking up to an inconvenient truth, a fact that there’s is something wrong with my life. Like a princess who was cursed by an evil witch, I am “sleeping” through my life waiting to wake up and join the land of the living. In this sense, I am occupying the land of the dead. Allow me to describe this realm for those of you fortunate enough to bypass this stop of your way to life. I see people living lives full of color, eating, drinking, smiling, laughing on their way to cafes and restaurents. They are dressed in the latest fashions and their clothes fit their bodies, as they browse through racks of new items that dropped in the stores. I am physically there, but like an observer or a fly on the wall, I can’t find a way to join in. It is as if there’s an invisible fence that hold me back, and magical ties that bind my mouth, hands and feet. My being is instilled in fear, all around me things speak an unfamiliar language that exists just underneath the surface, hissing words between the words. My name is spoken often like it is a filler sound, but then again so does the name of my family members. It is as if I am in a hole beneath ground and they are all walking the earth, unaware that I am trapped below. I cry out to them, I send distress signals, I put an SOS in a bottle. But it is to no avail. The psychological torture presists and I am caught in a paralyzing loop, trying to solve what seems like an unsolvable puzzle that has haunted me for 10 years, maybe more. When I think thoughts to myself, I find people saying my thoughts out loud as if they have an antenna hooked directly to my brain. The level of anguish and pain and suffering that comes with knowning that my very being, my essence is violated, is a fate worse than death. What to do, who to appeal to? I send out calls to the UN and ask for reprieve on grounds of humanity, under the banner of the Geneva Convention. Surely they would put an end to this torture that has taken unprecedented dimensions, to be quietly terrorized to oblivion while people walk by, eat, drink without a care of the horror in their midst. They flick their hair in response to a question I put to myself in my head. They nod when I wonder whether they can hear me. They laugh when I tell myself a joke I find amusing. I am convinced I have done something wrong in life, broken some cardinal rule. Why else would this happen to me. I ask my family if they hear it, too. Do they see what I see, hear what I hear. Do they understand what is happening to me. Why does it seem like Maysa is battling as we speak to claim my life as her life. Why does she say sorry over and over. Why does she insist that there is two of her and one of them is me. In what world does that make sense. When is enough enough. When will people wake up. I have lost so much as a result of this imprisonment and all indications are, it is at the hands of my very own family, my flesh and blood. My sister has fooled everyone into thinking I am insane when it is she who is the perpetuator of a vicious terror campaign worthy of Pol Pot. They are caught in a bubble of her creation, leading them down a path, the way to dusty death. Like Mcbeth, they will wake up one day and find their life meaningless and nihilism will set in. That will be the end of the world. I must find a way to stop it. I must overcome this obstacle called Maysa. My son’s life is at stake. I will go down fighting. On this hill, I will die. Find me somewhere at the bottom. It will be a rescue operation, not a salvage one. Because sometimes you have to die to live. See you on the other side.