A secret combination

We all think about tragedies. It doesn't necessarily have to happen to us, it could be anyone's. Maybe it is an underlying feeling in ourselves borne out of sympathy. No, is it empathy? The way we dwell in the sorrow of others like we have none of our own makes me want to believe in the world. Even if it would be a sad one. 

When I see someone in pain, I hope that this isn't the first time tragedy has struck them. I hope it is the fourth or fifth or second time because by then you'll slowly learn how to cope with it. And the fact that we have to is saddening by itself but aren't we all done trying asking for things to be better? Aren't we all tired of kneeling and praying in front of everyone and everything that makes us want to believe in hope again? Aren't we all tired of making closed rooms, taps running and walls our solace? Aren't you? 

But the first time. The first time strikes as loud as the clock strikes twelve at night, a feeling of unknown impending doom filling us. The first time strikes as loud as the sound from television when the remote isn't working. The first time doesn't give you a warning, it comes over uninvited and pretend that you had planned this meeting for years. The second time hurts more because you were prepared this time but you still couldn't stop it. It hurts as silent as the voice that told you 'Everything is going to be alright' descending into a whisper. It hurts as silent as the night sky when your heart feels heavy. And for some strange reason you'd wish for things to be loud again. 

Tragedies are a writer's secret muse. They'd give it new names, mannerisms and extra pain to disguise it. They'd name it something common but a name that didn't feel personal to them. They'd make characters that bites their lips when they are nervous or they'd place their hands on their heart when they cry to hear the heartbeats. They'd be characters that have recently suffered misfortune while they also carry the burden of your own tragedy from which you are still hurting. The things we do so that our tragedy looks completely different when it comes across another person. A disguised tragedy to remind us that things would be okay because you just can't seem to convince yourself. What a tragedy by itself!

We'd hide ourselves in between words and hope that people don't recognise us. We'd wonder in amusement at the amount of people that had found it relevant, each heart they give you feels like a handful of hope. And everytime another tragedy arrives, you'd read your words again and find yourself smiling when your heart beats loud with a voice 'You are not alone'. And we'd have learned to read between the lines and find our lost selves again. After all, a writer's secret muse and the reader's empathy was a combination for hope that had survived for years.