A Wasted LIFE : PART 1






The day shuts its skyward doors, pinching away any hope of redeemed time.
In ridiculous ritual, she retrieves her book and sits in silence.
Her book doesn’t hold any handwritten script or cherished family memories.
It doesn’t even hold a single worn page.
Her book holds the only record she faithfully keeps; the only score she can ever seem to recall.
The only chains, however imaginary they may be, that she still allows to hold her.
She messily slides her mental charcoal from its case and makes a mark.
A single short and eternally destructive slash.
A slash that determines a fate.
Every mark becomes a bar that she ignorantly welds to her own prison.
In her prison she steeps in fear so strong that it consumes her like an unattended flame.
A fear so present in her, she fears that if she were cut she would surely bleed it.
A fear so gripping that is strangles her joy.
A fear so destructive that she cowers in the corner instead of moving mountains with her faith.
She fears that she has wasted.
Wasted a minute.
Wasted an opportunity.
Wasted a day.
In proverbial torture she keeps her mocking tally – a gallery of black slashes;
a firm reminder of repeated and redundant failure.
She has heard it before: waste not, want not.
It made sense to her.
If only she could stop wasting so frequently perhaps she could stop wanting so deeply.
Oh, how her wants outnumbered even her oldest and best kept tally.
She has wasted money, yet still wants security.
She has wasted efforts, yet still wants energy.
She has wasted dreams, yet still wants success.
She has wasted time and still wants more to spend.
Utterly wasted.

TO BE CONTINUED....
                                                    --PRIYANK MEHTA


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