That pain still stays. Like a buried memory. Like a dead body that refuses to decompose after burial. Was the burial too quick? Were all the rituals done right? But who can ever decide the right way of letting go? When they put people on the pyre, they bathe it clean. But no one knows how the dead comes back as memories. It can come back when you taste your favorite food. Or maybe when you are making love. From your dinner table to your bedroom, they can come. There is no right way to bury it. And there are no walls you can build, through which the past cannot enter. It can enter all your present gates of happiness and sit naked in front of you. Where does one bury that nakedness?

The only place we ever bury anyone is in the human heart. And then we run and ravage the living to cast off the dead. Human hearts are graveyards of a thousand memories. It has its own ways of growing in turmoil, which we humans have no idea. The only way to be is to let the heart be in its own shadows and light. For we humans know nothing, about why it hurts when we are happy too much. Or why in the middle of the night in the bosom of our lovers an ancient pain throbs. We humans know nothing. Maybe, therefore, we talk, write and express so much. Or maybe that’s why a tree is silent. It’s rooted in the ancient soil that heals it from the humans around. Humans are fragile. They hurt of pains they know nothing of.

If my work has made an impact on you and you can buy me a coffee here. This will help me to keep writing and healing more. Thank you.

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