For the world is made up of melting dreams and hopes.
So hold my hand as we might fall.
Hold my hand because the world is cruel
Hold my hand because the storm is coming and the volcano is about to erupt
Hold my hand…
“Maa why do you even like this poem, it’s so dark” interjects my 10 year old daughter as I try to recite one of my favourite poem to her.
“So what is wrong with dark and bleak themes? One should be comfortable with both happiness and pain” I reply.
“Maa you are twisted. You do realize I’m 10, you are not supposed to read such bizarre things to me!” says my daughter who has perhaps memorized all of Poe’s poems.
“Yes, and one day you’ll be 40 and the world won’t appear dreamlike to you and then –
“Okay, so read such poems to me when I’m 40” she quickly adds and disappears as the door bell rings.
The door bell brings me back to reality, my therapist won’t be happy about this. I’ve started talking to my dead daughter again and that isn’t considered to be normal by my family or my therapist. Maybe I’ll keep my conversations with her to myself. These conversations are all I have of her now and I’m not letting go of them. People often find it difficult to understand others’ pain maybe if they did I wouldn’t be called crazy.