The Man From Nowhere

“See the nowhere crowd cry the nowhere tears of honour 
Like twisted vines that grow 
Hide and swallow mansions whole…”

– James Hetfield, The Memory Remains

He came from nowhere and he didn’t know where he was headed. He seemed lost, confused, a paper boat caught in a hurricane, with turmoil eroding the last traces of sanity and reason in his head. He was escaping, hopefully to a better tomorrow, but he didn’t know for sure. He wanted a fresh start, desperately. He didn’t know how he was going to achieve it – his bad luck seemed to have followed him here as well. Everything he tried seemed to fail, and fail miserably. He caught himself searching for straws to clutch at.

He vowed to find a muse, an inspiration, a candle in the whirlwind of his bad luck. He wanted to find the elusive abundance of good luck that had deserted him for so long. He yearned for the peace and tranquility that had been hiding from him. It was not a search in vain.

He met her on a hot, sunny afternoon and they regarded each other cautiously, unsure of just how much attention the other person warranted. She seemed harmless enough, but he was expecting his seemingly unlimited quota of bad luck to step in again.

“Been a while,” he said. Cautiously. Two tigers, one paranoid and the other indifferent, circling each other.

“Yes. How have you been?” she asked.

“Good,” he replied and they went on to talk about other things mundane.

Time flew by and a pact was etched in stone between them, unwritten yet indelible. It took time, obviously. It did not happen overnight. He began to experience her presence more and more in his life until it almost became an addiction. Over time, he started craving for her company. She became the beacon of light in the darkness that had clouded him. She forced him to embrace good luck again, though he never knew how she managed to do that.

He still had no destination in mind, but he knew that his journey wouldn’t be lonely anymore; the journey that he had started from nowhere and had seemed to head nowhere; the journey that she had spectacularly derailed and made more bearable. He had a lot of things to be thankful for. And for a million things more.

He had found his muse. He had found his share of good fortune. The man from nowhere was finally home.

Metaphorically Speaking

A secret could be a time when life hit you real hard, that it kills your stomach and head and heart, all at once. It could be a time when you screwed up, a situation in which you wouldn't want it to repeat anymore, or words you have said to someone, or words you have listened to. It could have been the worst time of your life. 

Or maybe, the harm was inflicted on you. You’re embarrassed you didn’t see the fist coming until it sucker-punched you right in the gut. It could have been a time in your life when you weren’t being the person you wanted to be.

But then it kills to keep the secret within , the pain bring an excruciating loneliness. And just when you decide to take all the strength and courage to share it, the human species makes you feel worst than anything else on mother earth. 

You thought excruciating loneliness was painful, but you learned the agonizing pain of having your secret against you by the very same person you've trusted them with, kills you. 

You stop dead in your tracks. Your cheeks blaze, and little pinpricks materialize on your skin.This feeling permeates your entire body down to your bones. Plain and simple, you feel ashamed.

You recall a saying about how sharing your secret halves the burden of carrying it alone, but most times, its better than having it happen twice. Keeping it inside is too painful. But sharing it does more damages. In the hopes of getting rid of the burden in your heart, you pass him the razor and the map, of where to cut deepest and most painfully on your heart and soul. 

When your secrets are used against you, you start to believe that the world is not made of love anymore, and relationships doesn't necessarily mean to completely trust.

We choose to believe that the excruciating pain of our secrets are lighter to bear than the agonizing pain of broken trusts. That is when people like you and me start to believe more in our novels, or pets. In the trees and lakes. In the pages of a diary, and the lyrics of a song. We choose the comfort of our pillows and dark rooms over people to tell a secret to. Because they will never say a word back. 

Ever.

 Not all psychos hurt. 
Some of them are sitting right next to you in class trying to figure out how to continue on without being noticed. 
They know your secrets and flaws and know how to use them against you. 
It takes so much to control. 
To hold back. 
And that’s why I can’t be with you. 
Because I don’t want to turn into the psychos who kill. 
The psychos who hurt.