Screams of our Mothers


The sky is blue.

The grass is green.

The sun is yellow.

Except they aren’t.

Not really.

Are they?

Sure, in their perfect forms they may appear as such. But, how frequently do we ever see anything in its perfect form? The world is a patchwork of blemishes and stitched together imperfections. To say that the sky is blue is to disregard sunsets, and the cacophony of beauty that the setting sun orchestrates. Fuchsia, boysenberry,  tangerine… the sun sings to us in the only language it knows – colour. While in winter the sky is a collage of lulling whites, foreboding blacks and all the shades of greys in between. Life is full of different shades of grey.

Life… we are obsessed with finding that one word or emotion to summarise it neatly. To condense all that we see around us into grains that can so easily fit in the palm of our hands. Simplicity doesn’t exist. It’s not a pursuit of convenience; it’s an urge to overcompensate for the chaos within us. Deep inside we are a tangled mess that tightens rather than loosens with each passing day. Why else do children always look so happy, while the elderly are so miserable?

There is no peace. Not even within our own minds. Every waking moment, our heads are consumed by a staccato of thoughts firing in different directions. We can’t maintain focus for longer than a few seconds, without our minds wandering in search of pastures new. Our thoughts have a habit of running free like a herd of wild stallions. Untamed and dangerous.

The world is constantly in motion. Even beneath our feet, the ground that appears so solid and unmoving, floats endlessly on oceans of magma. While, the Earth itself is just a blue dot hurtling through monstrous blackness – the unquenchable unknown. In the whole universe, there isn’t a single ounce of calm or tranquillity. If there was, nothing could exist.

Our world was not forged by the divine click of a finger, but with violent explosions and collisions. Everything we see around us was created by chaos. Even us. We left the wombs of our mothers, not with ease or barely a whimper, but kicking and screaming. Upon birth we were baptised by blood, tearing flesh and the screams of our mothers.

The last time I heard the scream of my mother… my last breath was escaping my lungs. After a life consumed by pain and suffering, I realised the only way to escape it was death. Desperate for calm and tranquillity in a universe drowning in chaos… I took my own life. I placed a bag over my head and dived into a lake, waiting for non-existence to swallow me up. The screams of my mother echoed in my ears as I slipped into the unknown.

Finally, I have peace…

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