Rage

“And the photographs know I'm a liar,

They just laugh as I burn her down.”

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In the silent corners of the mind, where the burdens of the past reside, there is a truth that can no longer be concealed. With every click of the camera and every snapshot taken, the photographs bear witness to the dishonesty and those haunting images that know the depths of my deception. They silently mock, the cunning actors that they are, revealing the darkest secrets to the world. In their unyielding gaze, they laugh as one burns the very essence of her presence to the ground.

 

Within their glossy surfaces, the several shams are encapsulated, forever encased in frames of treacherous beauty. They capture each stolen moment, each stolen breath, deceiving not only the world but, more importantly, the one person who deserved nothing but honesty — oneself.

 

The photographs, like gatekeepers to the soul, tell a tale of broken promises, shattered dreams, and the inevitable demise of genuine connection intertwined with such fierce, consuming love. Each visual representation a mask, skilfully crafted to disguise the crumbling foundation of bonds and relationships, concealing the cracks that widened with every passing day.

 

Those eyes, once ablaze with hope and trust, have now transformed into cautionary flames, reflecting the damage one has wrought upon the heart and yet, one cannot blame anyone for one’s tears, nor can one excuse the actions that brought about those little beads of water. For one has been the orchestrator of this symphony of falsehoods, and now the haunting melody plays on, relentlessly reminding them of the pain they inflicted.

 

In the corners of one’s shattered world lie the remnants of apology letters and forgotten promises. Walls adorned with sepia-toned whispers of stolen affection, stolen time, and stolen happiness. Pictures speak louder than words, they say, their echoing laughter a constant reminder that it is not just their trust one has broken, but one’s own soul, torn asunder by the weight of one’s own lies.

 

As one gazes into each photograph, an album filled with the chronicles of one’s deceit, the heart aches with regret. Regret for the nights spent crafting excuses, for the moments stolen in the arms of another, and for the truth that was hidden, desperately clinging to the shattered façade of connections. The photographs, the merciless guardians of downfall, bear witness to the painful, relentless path of destruction one chose to walk upon.

 

The spirit no longer able to coexist with the weight of the betrayals, stand before them, one’s reflection mirrored in the lens of countless images that reveal one’s true face. For the first time, one confronts the lies head-on, consumed by remorse and overwhelmed by the consequences of the actions. One yearns for forgiveness, but deep down, knows forgiveness is far from attainable. The photographs mock still, their laughter a cruel reminder of a love extinguished, a trust betrayed, and a soul set on fire.

 

The photographs serve as a reminder that the repercussions of one’s deceit are far-reaching, extending beyond shattered trust to the very core of one’s being. The flames of guilt dance higher, fuelled by self-inflicted torment, and their silhouette fades away—consumed by the inferno one has kindled. As the smoke rises, the laughter of the photographs resounds, a bitter chorus bearing witness to the destruction of an unbreakable bond, to the incineration of affection that once flourished.

 

In this fiery abyss of one’s making, one is a liar laid bare and vulnerable, forever haunted by the memories captured in those unforgiving lenses. The “photographs know I'm a liar,” they expose one’s deceit, and amidst their mocking laughter, one is left to confront the irreversible damage caused—forever burdened by the weight of their truth.

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Niharika Rajesh Jha

11C