and he cried

He was tensed, perplexed as if he was standing in the midst of crowd still lost. He knew it was his only chance, time was ticking, passing by his side yet, he couldn't realize it. Since a few days he was once again caught into the same web of 'Irony of being vocal.' He knew he couldn't open his lips otherwise all hells would break lose. But, he could not keep it either to himself. It was a sudden burst of emotions which have brought him to this situation. He came back to his house and lied down on bed. He hadn't felt this tiredness in recent years. He tried to sleep so that he could get rid of it. For a moment he was even fall asleep but, suddenly he jumped of his bed fearing a monster strangulating his throat. He glanced at the streets through the window, no body was there. It was so silent, so peaceful. But inside him there was a storm, waiting to come out.

For a moment he saw the ceiling fan in his room and thought of making the best use of it, to hang himself. Death was less painful to him than saying it. But, the next moment he thought that death would have been peaceful only if it would have happened once. Here he was dying everyday, slowly - slowly. This death would not comfort him. He sat on his bed with folded legs and put his head on it. Something was there inside him and it wanted to come out - with a force. He knew he could not hold it.

He put his hands on his head and cried loudly. It was so loud that people on streets would have heard it. But, to his astonishment he could not hear it. He kept on crying. If he would cried like this, he would have deserted the whole neighborhood. After a while, he was feeling light as if a load has been taken off from his shoulder. Whatever he wanted to say was still unspoken but, now he had spoken it although, in a different language. Others would not have understood it but, he had already told what he wanted to say.