“A silky bubbled bath, a silky-bubbled bath, a silky-bubbled bath is all I need,” the song played from the radio. I was driving to the boundless suburbs, feeling withdrawn. At some point, I thought everyone must have been scared of the famous unknown. I received concerning news lately about my health; it left me cornered to face my darkest fears. My fears were shaped as a grey-shaded hue figure that felt I was being followed. Abrupted, my grip intensified, holding the wheel, and I lost track of the main road. Finally, I decided to get down, try to figure it out and get myself together. My mind drifted to the bottled dreams of my life.
It was in the middle of nowhere, just a vast land unpolluted by humans. However, the influence of the animals inhabiting the area was lucky to have a place known to them. The scenery was historical to me; I had visited such a place previously, in those fictional stories that make you feel that you are in a different world.
The place or maybe my thoughts felt smoothly accessible, unlike my reality. My eyes were getting all watery just for the cause. I couldn’t tell, but this was real, and I was here.
Hufan Farah
I had never looked at soil and appreciated it so much. I mean, only a little once, I cracked a stick off the tree’s branch to scribble a heart-shaped figure on the pure soil and quickly crossed it. The sense of gentleness of the ground is odd even to practice sharing it with people, let alone holy heavens.
Childhood Sands and Grounded Realizations
I remember running unrestrictedly when I was eight, even though I knew I would be scolded when I got home. It was always the soil, the ground; there is so much to it, even more than I do to it. I lay there recalling my ground adventures. I believed those subtle, non-speaking “things” could develop emotions with people of high frequencies. I tried not to harm the soil, fearing to cause a more significant wound like the one on my feet.
I remember little kids used to crush a can so hard with their feet to shape it into a hockey puck, toss it over, and call it a game. I wasn’t pleased with doing it until that day when I was persuaded by the “it is fun, come on.” I struggled, and as I just tossed it once, a flying giant, heavy, scrubby hand defying the course of the wind hit me in the face, and I couldn’t forget the pain.
… But even at the park, in the sandy playground, I used to make shapes after pouring water and mixing it with the sand thoroughly until I was warned by the grown-ups that there were other grown-ups who kept stalking the kids in the playground and luring them with candies or ice-creams, I was once drawn because ice-cream is my favorite. I don’t know, but kids, though I shouldn’t speak for all kids, love changing, developing, and experimenting with things. Now, the word “things” feels underappreciated. As I reflected on my life here in this deserted area, I realized how much my work as a medical examiner allowed me to experiment with examining and figuring out the truths of lives.
But lying here on the ground, I wanted to perceive life as it is, just be still and appreciate it. So, I bent to smell the soil and see where these little ants were going; they were black and a little bigger. I know they smell so bad if crushed to death, but worse when they sting into the skin, they cause rashes and immense irritation.
Echoes of the Past: Solace in Memory’s Bakery
It’s been three weeks since I moved out. I remained unfazed despite the flurry of irked thoughts filled with inquiries racing through my mind. Nothing held any significance at that moment, not even death. Instead, I found myself encircled in an overwhelming artifice of the intangible. I entered the fantasy world, reminded of the fast-paced competitions, like when I won and got the ticket to the most spectacular ball yet agonized.
Teardrops fell into the soil and disturbed the quietness; I couldn’t see clearly. Would it have been better if I could sit down without thought and be left here? “STOP IT, CAN YOU FOR ONCE LEAVE ME BE,” please.
It is like a ticking clock that never stops buzzing around me as a fly. I kept drowning in my thoughts and felt eerie again, even though I returned to the car and drove further. I saw this vast, dingy, brown-painted graveyard. I remembered my great grandfather, a graveyard keeper who woke up early before dawn to go to the cemetery for the burials. I’m not particularly eager to start with, “Oh, old people possess an innate wisdom,” he was just a regular man whom I cherished; may his soul rest in peace.
But, growing up, I used to run to his bakery because it was the only place I felt safe and calm. It was the only place my head looked upwards, and my chest stretched confidently. The bakery had a surreal quality, and the ambiance was unique. Every time he took the beautiful Eritrean himbasha out of the oven, I came hurling, pleading can I please have one more piece?
With a smirk, Grandpa said, “That is enough for now; maybe later after lunch.” I don’t know what it was, but I just smiled as the memories of my great-grandfather and his delicious himbasha crossed my mind. I may need sweet, aromatic, freshly baked bread. I don’t think I will ever forget. That bakery’s memory lingered in my senses, comforting me amidst the chaos of my thoughts. I realized that sometimes, during uncertainty and fear, the little underappreciated things can bring solace and peace. It is just a diagnosis based on the provided elements that caused me this disease. After all this bombardment of thoughts, a new diagnosis that indicates a positive outcome can be produced if the elements can be changed into a more positive outlook. I decided to continue my unknown journey of roaming and exploring the vast lands. I could go back to my great-grandfather’s bakery in a different form. To visit streets that are lined with picturesque shops and vibrant cafes, each radiates a unique charm. I drove further and further through a town.
Sanctuary of Words: Rebirth Amidst Uncertainty
I felt a sense of connection with the place. I parked slightly and started walking towards a building that looked like an old library. There was a side to turn to for entrance, but it seemed cornered. Startled with the note signed, I felt a chilly breeze. Was I already starting to enter a new phase of me?
It had a similar ambiance that set a wave of tranquility. The cozy interior was filled with shelves of books that created a sanctuary of knowledge and imagination. I strode between the aisles, grabbing the books and feeling the stories within. It was a familiar scent that embraced me like a warm hug that I needed. In this haven of literature, I could find new elements supporting me to shift from misery and the worries that burdened me.
I am lost again, here, but in the enchanting world of words. I read a few verses penned by poets from different eras and cultures, and their words resonated deeply with my soul.
They spoke directly to me, offering me wisdom, hope, and a renewed perspective on life or patience for new beginnings.
I couldn’t stop but remember death, yet I noticed that life is filled with fluctuations of emotions, experiences, and dreams. It is an ever-unfolding journey, filled with ups and downs and the potential for profound beauty and meaning after agony. I left and got back to my car, and drove further. I carried a new sense of resilience and a fresh outlook on life, even if it is uncertain once my time is due. I knew that although challenges would come my way, I had the strength to face them with courage. I might be ready to embrace all troubles.
As I drove back to the suburbs, I increased the song’s volume on the radio and followed the rhythm. I need a warm bath that could take me to a brighter place.
