In the early hours of a typical Sunday morning, I jumped over and side-stepped graves all around me as I made my way towards where my grandfather slept six feet beneath the ground.
I kept talking to myself as was a habit of mine which was always intensified whenever I found myself alone. Stepping over the last of the taller graves and reading out the familiar names on the tombstones that always conveniently served as directions for me, I finally approached my destination.
I felt… strange. Surrounded by more than five thousand graves in the centre of one of the largest graveyards in the city, I felt… peace.
It was dead silent. I was so far deep into the cemetery that the noise of the world could not reach me. There wasn’t a living soul in sight and the only sounds that I could hear were the birds in the surrounding trees and the rustling of the leaves on the branches above me.
I hadn’t known peace like this before. A feeling of certainty that this is exactly the place where I’m supposed to be right now. I felt… alone. In a world full of people, I felt I was the only one left and I realized that the only one I need to connect with is my inner self.
I hoped, no, I prayed that all those who laid there slept in peace and that they all were happy somewhere up in heaven.
I walked away from that place, my head and eyes towards the ground and my hopes soaring higher than the clouds.
Ak the Wordsmith 