The room is adorably colorful. Its walls are painted violet. Its ceiling is pink. There’s a white table on its center. There are rosy cabinets at its sides. Its beds are girly-fashioned. The cushions are winsomely cute. There are picture frames displaying memories. There are books revealing usage. The electric fan’s swinging constantly. The windows are translucently glassy. Yet, a person remains incarcerated in this beguiling beauty of artificiality, confined by a door that never abandons its security role, for darkness will impossibly prevail if she stays in this enclosure protecting her from the unknown. Here is her story – here is my story.
The world was bright. It was totally showing magnificence as I strolled, offering colors filling the spaces of dullness and tediousness. Everything seemed to hold carefreeness. Wind was flowing harmonically. Rays were emanating wonderfully. Fragrance was dominating sweetly. Despite the sweat dripping from my head, an inevitable manifestation of hardship and tiresomeness, I continuously set footprints on the unrecognizable skin of nature, taking a trip down the beauty of the world’s enormity. However, in spite of my efforts purposely blinding me from the reality I was in, I knew the world’s in graveness. I knew people were bringing these hygienic fluids called alcohols. I knew people were wearing these face defenses called masks. I knew people were facing this virus called SARS-CoV-2. I knew people were fighting against this disease called COVID-19. I knew, from then on, that days later, everything would all be a photography only meant to be reminisced. I was – unfortunately – correct. As I gradually open my eyes and welcome the brightness passing through my massive window, I know I have to resist the urge of wanting to be in the outside world I once call as my refuge. I have to stay put on the softness of my bed while watching the colors shining deceptively through my perspective. And so, I close my eyes and breathe, preparing me for the day lighting its way in me. Yet, as I am about to be thankful of the positivity beneath the incarceration securing me in, the television screen – wide and open – is displaying the tragic otherwise: I am in an enormous pessimism.
Frontliners are risking their being. Citizens are begging at the streets. Children are anxiously crying. It is a devastating scene at front, involuntarily weakening my immanent firmness. For the first time in my life, my chest tightens – with unbearable pain – as I think of the catastrophic context I am situated in. The world is in a disaster – and I just can’t help but weep. But, I know I can do more than just shed tears. I know I can do more than just produce inaudibility. We are in an exemplifying mess. With that, I know I can do something more. As I finish this reflection’s ending passage in this violet-and-pink colored confinement, I know I’m doing something so valuable. This is something “more” that I can do. This is something more than just crying. This is something more than just mourning. Through this, I have to accept. Through this, I have to acknowledge. Because, if there’s this one storm I must brave – it is this reality I am in. I must continue. I must carry on.