At the age of 9, when kites should be floating in the middle skies, kissing the rays of the sun, bicycles racing the wind in his hair and childhood laughters lingering long after day light is gone, he picks up his pencil, and writes his will instead.
There are no more words. And even if there were anymore, they have long since been stolen from atop his lips and mine. His eyes tell a million stories of pain and anguish; searching for comfort in my own desperate gazes. He sees my desperation, runs to it, for he sees comfort even in the utter helplessness of my own mesmerised looks into the void, hoping there is a God that is listening to my cries and his .. and theirs .. I think there is .. I know there is .. He has pulled us out of oblivion too many a time, and in my own utter helplessness, I kneel and pray and roar and revolt and explode.
I had promised them all that this shan't be the last word. There is still breaths in me; the fighter that has never left is still there; the monster I know, the beast deep within, he is on leash. Time; it is the most precious non-existent, yet everywhere, union of place and dimensions one can ever hope to posses, is all that is separating this Ghoul I have struggled to keep within all my life. Tamed he is not; oppressed, that he is; and the day he is unleashed .. his will ..
WILL BE DONE. HIS WILL, WILL BE DONE.
QED
