Accidents occur all the time. And when I say this, I don’t mean it rhetorically, I mean it in its literal entirety. All of us, at some point in our lives, are victims of an accident, one that never truly erases off the part where our memories are stored.
As much as we would want to avoid them, we can’t not bump into people.
It’s a way of the world; simply put, it’s how things work. We stumble into something, break an arm, struggle hard on our knees, and gather ourselves back again. The vestiges, what about them? They’re there to stay, for quite some time, mostly forever. They are reminders of the time when you weren’t careful enough.
You, I’d like to call you my accident. Someone I can’t bring myself to be glad about. You were always there, like a doomed shadow, watching but never close enough.
You were there when I fell, but your hand, I never found. You were there when I stood strong, but your words, they didn’t reach me, not then, not yet. But you stayed, showing me how guilt feels like everytime my eyes managed to confront yours. And just like that, without even doing anything, you pushed me back to square one, to where it all began.
Accidents do a little good to you. They teach you to look out for yourself. The bad thing about accidents is, you never know when the next one’s coming. The worst thing, you’re all alone.
For what I’ve learnt is, the world is a blithe sadist, and people are cancer cells.