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Like A Military Coup

It’s a wound far deeper
Than the normal stab of a knife
A suicidal bomb
That keeps blowing at time fragments
It’s like a prickly porcupine…
Moving in my intestines cutting and pricking
Like a crafty chameleon, changing colours
The colours of pain it’s painting in my valves
Coating multiple layers with pointed brushes
Dressing up my system with this horrible pain
Its is destined to stay forever, destined never to go
Destined to keep me broken … never let me grow
I smash my head against the wall, fists against the mirror
Anything to get rid of it, the pain wont even quiver
Should I run in front of a truck? Or have daggers stabbed at my back?
What to do? To get this pain off my track?
It saturates my mind; like a military coup it takes over
Dictates my thoughts, my actions, my desire –
Against me – coercing my rebel platelets to conspire …


Suppose it’s a cliche?

As a kid, not healing was not an option; it was a matter of survival. Being a serious asthma patient post-birth, healing meant completely different to me than most other kids. Now walking, talking, running … this is stuff you can probably ignore for a few hours or days, to give yourself enough time to heal if you’re sick or injured. I had to learn how to control my breathing pattern before I could even fully properly comprehend what patterns are.

As I grew older, sports happened. That part of the healing was actually fun. Getting scraped on the cement floors diving for a catch or ripping your trousers at the knees and bleeding from it was actually heroic if you wanted to be counted as a serious player (sports-wise). And I was regardless of incentives, a very serious minded sports player.

My evenings out of my house were pretty intense affairs. Had a car run over my foot once while I was avoiding getting hit playing pittoo-paari (a local street game in Karachi). Had a 60 kg marble slab fall on my foot as I attempted to fix a broken public bench. Had a hair-line fracture on the shin bone batting without a pad on the back leg playing hard-ball cricket; naturally I got hit. Now the healing process was painful, but heroic nevertheless.

As life got serious, what became quickly apparent was that physical healing wasn’t always THAT scary. Turns out life is all about dealing with mental scars. And who’s to say those scars need healing? Why can’t you and your scars co-exist? Does the clot really need to happen? And if the clot happens, does it really need to be gradually replaced by new skin? There’s a certain addiction in licking your wounds of memories gone by, good and bad alike. Even if there are some particularly bad memories, there’s some genuine ease and temptation in wanting to sink into THAT particular despair.


Now I haven’t yet been able to decide whether that pool of despair feels sweet, but I’ll tell you this; I don’t hate it. I have been co-existing with it for many years now. I can’t say that I have healed. I can’t say that I have died.

Suppose this cliche is just that? A cliche? Maybe healing is overrated.

This is in response to today’s word: Heal


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