The Funeral

The shadows on the wall leap mockingly, across the mind's dancefloor, and tango, gyrating under the pulsating rhythm of the nails constantly pounded by the construction man called Trauma. Pain after pain resounds but the shadows pirouette, nonetheless, ending with grim smiles that poke and bore holes into the fragile tiles of the dancefloor. They are relentless, and every time they dance, they become garish and reckless. They tip their glasses, with bellowing laughter and spill their poisoned drinks all over the floor, so much so, that no amount of wiping could ever cleanse their chaos. Fara screams.... Migraine.... Again. 

She angrily fumbles for the black dress which hangs lifelessly in the dark, dusty closet. She came close to wearing it one day, but courage and fear fought a deadly battle that grappled and severed her throat, suffocating her, leaving fear to conquer and courage to bolt in anguish, to hide, to cower. Fara is enthralled, seeing its black tip between the hinges of the old, wooden closet. She wrests the black dress and marries it, letting it hug her every curve in affectionate captivation. The procession starts tonight.

With eyes wedged tight, she searches the healing shovel and arms it at her right side. Then, she enters the church of mind and begins to wail as she follows the vices, the ego, the hurt, the pain, the lovers, the friends, the job, the parents, the thoughts, .... up the aisle she haphazardly goes, scared that they may all turn around in an instant and pounce, forcing her to retreat. As she gets closer to the altar of Grace, she spots the light of courage beaming among the choir of angels blinding the demons that stand behind firmly, with angry crossed arms, viciously awaiting to seize the moment with fear.

The deceased sits across the aisle and pierce her with their stares. Fara is afraid to look and face them, but courage soon reminds her why she is here. And then the priest delivers the bidding prayers, and asks her to stand around the deceased, where she shakes violently and unleashes a howl- like scream, one that was buried deep underneath her soul, which produces a multitude of tears that trickle down from the mind, into the heart and out of the corners of her brown eyes. The burial ground awaits, surrounded by cackling thunder. Shovel in hand and a tattoo called Brave engraved on her heart, she marches down the aisle, this time following them, the deceased, with a smile. Then, she feels the hand of courage touch her once trembling shoulder, nudging her forward, beckoning her to persist.

The cemetery lies to the back of her mind, in a solemn and enclosed location, a place that only Fara is allowed to enter. She takes the healing shovel, assumes the position and digs the first grave. In goes the negative thoughts, the "I can't", the "I'm not good enough," the "this is my fault." The second grave, she digs so wide, and she buries her past lovers, her ex- friends, and in fall their sins of manipulating, abuse, greed, and disloyalty. The next grave is for the ego, to shut him up finally and keep him underground where his malice can no longer reach her and cause her to see the world through a stained- glass window. She reserves a special grave for trauma, and when she finishes digging, she throws in the love she never received, the humiliation from her parents, the cruelty of the world she faced too early, and the ghastly stares of the ones whose only intent was to assume and misunderstand. 

Fara envelopes every grave, piling the dirt up high, then pats and stomps because her life, henceforth depends on their everlasting burial. She then plants a flower on top of each grave, hoping that one day soon, they will bloom, exposing beautiful colours and extending ravishing scents, helping her to transcend. Fara then positions a tomb stone at the head of every grave. Now, she slowly retreats from the cemetery located far behind in her mind and as she closes the golden gate and happily clasps the lock, she glimpses at the tombstones which all read, "Fara does not live here anymore." 

She stands up from the edge of the bed, eyes flailing slowly, opening to signal the end of the procession and she stares at the flared base of the black dress. Slowly, Fara undresses, careful to not undo a single hem, because she has intention to pass it on; for the black dress she possesses, will one day be the saving Grace at the funeral of someone else's pain. A beautiful