You weren’t praying back then. Admit it. You were wishing. You were wishing so hard you could not possibly imagine your trembling voice, heavy heart and hopeless sighs, without a divine background. Even from saints, who had fallen and their seats in heaven to the ground next to you, stood neglected behind the dim light of your candle. You were always leaving the church with your head lowered, counting steps, denying yourself the view of the sky, deriding birds’ existence. You kept on going your way wondering when will you reach the bottom. Because each and every time you felt you’d seen it, it always had more depth coming to meet you. In fact you felt the ground safer than the sky. Not because of the height, because you thought its deep blue hues had fooled you.
The voices in your head had become so loud you couldn’t even hear your heart. It seemed as though you had popped your hands up, and the white flag of surrender above your ship, wasn’t the color you expected for your march. You surrendered voluntarily, on a last attempt to make peace with reality. What you didn’t know was that reality has very little to do with what is real. It wasn’t reality that got you off this rollercoaster of overanalysis, sleepless nights spent crying, unwillingness to get out of bed and ponderous vanity. Between you and me, you would either throw up or fall down from all this whirling. So, it was you. Vertigo still remains but now you don’t feel yourself falling.
You have brought the balance. Thus you can look down to see all the way you have made till here, without any giddiness at all. Without even closing your eyes out of fear of heights or stretching your hand looking something to hold on to. You have become the tightrope walker that you can applaud at the end of their performance. Your hard work, the hidden persistence behind your exhaustion, your smiles at the end of a long muffled crying, your determination to watch the flock of wings in the sky when you would have something great to tell them have paid off.
Sometimes you think it is a miracle, or that someone is playing a joke on you and all of it will be soon gone.
Some other times, all your people, all those people in your life who don’t even have a name of their own, the ones you just call yours, make an appearance just when you’re about to give up hope. And they are your people. As much as they are real. That kind of real that, with flesh, blood, eyes, arms, and legs, has made your once wandering around bubble of an existence, put the keys on the door, and lock you in arms, real flesh and bloodones, to keep you safe. Those arms are confident you deserve it.
You made them confident by believing it yourself. You made them confident, the moment you became confident that everything you have ever dreamt of, and more, has come true – not due to a plan or a stategy, even if you were the one building it.