If you're still here, you'd smile at me, embraced me like a child I am. Opened arms, swaying like tree branches nudged by a calm wind. "Come," you'd say. "I sense you're too tired to carry on."

The next thing would happen is me laying my temple on your chest. I'd breathe in all things that made you, and you wouldn't complain a bit. You'd just keep smiling, and I'd be still on your chest while crying.

"Rest," you'd say. "For the road ahead is long and waiting, still."

"Rest," again, you'd say. "For your feet still longingly craving for steps, for dirt and dust, and rain and puddles."

"Rest," you'd say, yet again. "For your head still needs space to keep the sanity in place."

And the last thing you'd say is, "Rest. Live for your loved ones and realise that you're being loved. The living and the dead are in the same legion of people who share the same love for you."

26 March 2021. In some places between insanity, anger and uncertainties. Pasha Fatahillah.

Pic credit:

Annie Spratt