You took my breaking hand and told me stories of a world where humans can be built again, where all that darkness that has seeped into me, into you can be cast away with a kiss and mornings with warm breakfast, a hunger of two. You placed your old sweaters beside mine and that dark cupboard became a symbol of an enticing spring that would never end.
Within all that beauty and warmth how was I to know that you were meaning to leave, willing yourself to make that exit, even when you welcomed me into your arms. How was I to know that this darkness in you, in me would continue to only grow in new directions making us fear not the breaking, but our breaking to be seen by each other.
I remember you waking up early and trying to put the clothes of “forever”, ironing out the new folds in your skin so you can continue to love this life made of dreams. I remember you placing my name on your tongue, in the body of your thirst in a whisper and then crying silently knowing you cannot love this anymore.
Yet I kept my eyes closed thinking of springs, and sweaters, and a home filled with two of everything. I kept my eyes closed giving you time enough to find the strength and the numbness to embody the person you were long ago. I feel your weight at the edge of the bed, I feel your sigh and your hands still filled with care thoughtlessly placed on me. Love is so beautiful, isn’t it, even in its end.
Ice floats and ships sink but the absolutes end here. For this red sun, that seems to sink together with us all, is just playing a kind game. It is will be fine. Just fine. It will pretend to die just for our sake. Just like how it pretends to be born so that we don’t feel alone.
It doesn’t know yet, that we feel lonely in spite of that. That there are things in life that can make us forget, that can cancel the sunshine and the storms. There are soft things that gets trodden upon, there is a kindness that we can’t value as humans because it doesn’t come from the one we want. There are things with weight and never leave our heart- Like love, like death, like subjective harshness of this world. Like the unnamed thing eating our dreams, Like the unmanned vehicle of luck running over us- leaving us alive everytime. The friend who forgets us so often that we believe that we are ghosts, the rain of care that we try to predict in the eyes of cold lover, the floating bodies that we can’t recognize. But we cry and in our tears we feel the remains of the memory that we can’t access. we only feel we must cry or we will regret.
So dear sun forgive us if we don’t return your smile as we thrash around breathless in water, as we demand answers in a voice weathered by tears. Forgive us if we forget that unlike us you will probably die alone. Things get forgotten important things like you and the other members of your life-filled-lifeless club. That’s just how we are but we realize it sooner or later what they were.
I can recall the days when i knew you tried to save me. You almost succeeded. You were beautiful even when my life was not. But even that helps. Thank you. We may not say it that much, but we have written a lot about you in the papers you’ll never read. I hope when you die the papers that are filled with your beauty can burn to give you a few more breaths. I hope it helps even though it won’t.
Across this glass, across the tired melting clouds of mist, on the other side there are trees and homes and forests that are just like places on this side that I rest.
The places where I am not look as sad as all the places I have been. Everywhere, on every road there is always a person who knows a way to break my heart, and I always end up thanking them for it.
There are rooms where I put up lights and posters and curtains and lovers and music, those are the rooms I want to die in- with some beauty, with some consolation of meaning .
But always I find the reason for my end outside these walls. Those reasons live under the brightest light on the darkest road. And because I was told that the light that I don’t know of is the one that saves all, even the hopeless ones like me. So my legs forget how to stop, my hands forget how to let go, and my blood glitters for a moment under the light of lost hopes before it turns black, before it invites in the cold that I always thought belonged to the inanimate world.
I think of the room I won’t reach, and the songs and the faces and this world that I will not be given a piece of, to keep.
As the sky fills me up, pats me down, and tucks me in the snow across the white, I feel someone stir from sleep. The wail that my throat cannot make, finds a home in that other world, in the other me that unlike me knows how to cry and how to be loved for it.
In the shade of a fruitless spring-less tree as I tried to recall and write down all the phone numbers I once knew by heart, I looked at the sky and laughed for thinking too highly of myself and thinking too little about my heart. That is the last thing I remember before I was possessed.
Oddly I always remember this point of contrast marked by the last tear I actually cried. Whatever now had made home in me convinced me that I could be complete even if I stay as who I am, that I could stand in this world witnessing beauty, love, companionship, faith, life and be happy even if it could do nothing for me, even if they were not mine.
Someone, who couldn’t possibly have been me, lived my life in my place from that moment, and I never had to wonder again if I am allowed to live like this. I never picked up another paper I threw in the trash. I now never tried to play the role of the one with bigger heart. I was finally free of hope, of love, of being myself. Now it was the work of whoever wanted this body, whoever wanted my life.
Some deaths are not only slow but also beautiful. And the eyes that are once covered with this lie of beauty never want to see the the pain beneath. We can accept the pain as fact, or even as a myth, as long as it is beautiful, as long as the center of ruin is not our lives.
In the rubble with nerves hiding sparks, in the nest of sleeping explosives, again it is you. Again you are here to prove something by doing something unasked for.
You build a place for warm tea, for all our shivering ghosts to haunt. You place the chairs that are not chairs but buckets that cannot hold anything now. There are chairs that are lying around just fine but you don’t want them. You don’t want the old purposes eating away the beauty of all that is left behind.
You console the ones holding onto what is no longer there but you don’t want the ones who want a way back to what it was. You ask us questions with your bleeding lips you want us to answer with something real, not just words. “You are cruel”, you laugh when we say that. You make us leave everything we are just so that we can finally sit on empty buckets thinking about the hands we cannot hold, thinking about hands that are no longer hands.
“The city is no longer burning”, you tell us as we place our empty glasses in front of our empty eyes and tell us it is fine if we don’t believe it now. “Sleep. Dream and stay for a while with the molten and bombed, the lost and the dead that still have your heart. Take your time.”
As we lay awake in our heart-wrenching grief, as we lose ourselves to your favorite world of sleep, you stand beside the fire that keeps us alive. You stand beside the fire that is not actually fire but your heart that burns like sun.
We wanted to tell you, “You are kind. You are too beautiful for this world. Have our heart and burn it instead.” But we couldn’t . We knew these things were easy only in words, that these were things we couldn’t do, yet. That we have not smiled and laughed with bleeding lips, helping while being hated. That we were too selfish to be you.
I sit on the cold boulder and film everything, just like I am told. I am told, only for today, I should stop sewing myself up haphazardly, messing up the live-stream, and talking about things that will never happen. I have been told to put a hold on the wonderful manipulation that does no good to any effort my mind puts in fixing things back.
My mind doesn’t like me much, understandably. And I don’t like the idea of fixing anything- a harder concept. Maybe that’s why I burn as my mind looks around me. Maybe I should actually stop, when I am told to but I don’t want a way out, I don’t want to look.
“i promise not to hurt anyone but me” “i am fine like this. don’t take my tears seriously.” “please don’t mind the doctor’s note.” “please don’t mind the smoke in this room, it is a temporary solution to my emptiness, till something worse comes along.”
There is an exit sign that flies far away from me. There appears a road that it eats itself up . There are bridges that I have cried over and the fires that no longer burn. Everything of beauty that I had in me I have lost it here. I have burnt my body, nerve by nerve, for the sake of peace and love. Let me live here near the ashes of my past selves near the life that cannot be, around things that can’t be helped.
the one thing i can’t be is honest. though there are many other adjectives that stare at me from their balconies at midnight as i walk and crawl through the dirt road, through the pool of lights, crying and shouting and breaking dreams in every home that i pass by. i hear them shaking their heads with disapproval and hopelessness. i look at their hazy shadows and try to hate them in equal measures but i don’t because they are so easy to forget. but this honesty, this honesty that people expect vexes me. this expectation makes me want to hide, run, run over their hearts all because it is so simple. all because the ones who ask me of this through their tears are not mere observers but are the ones struggling to stay close to me fighting the unnecessary sandstorm i create everyday. they are the ones who deserve honesty. they are the ones i don’t deserve. but my dishonesty is not only for this world. it is the only thing i can offer to myself as well. so again, i wake up in their arms with another lie ready on my lips. i hug them with with my true love and my false heart. i don’t try to make it right when they are in shambles again because there is no fancy way to put it, there is no beauty in what i do, there is no promise i would keep. there are only people who i leave. even when i can’t bear to miss one more person again.
I saw you in a moment abandoned by every story. I saw you slowly circling the window of life to find a way in. I watched you, waited for you as I lay on the painful bed of abandon, as I wrote my hundredth song on the beauty of giving up. With my eyes glued to you I ate another scoop of air and lied about the sweetness it fills me with. I wondered what a person like you would think of me. As you flit across my only sky I can’t help but hope for you, hope to be like you. I also can’t help but hope to be free from you. To wake up to a frozen window with nothing to stop me from…
Was it 5 years ago, or 6 that we all sat together looking at the bright beginning of another series of setbacks that we were becoming. The coldness of the wood, the ruffle of papers, the moment before we learned to truly hate ourselves.
I miss that.
As we stood waiting in line for something to take away everything we were just beginning to see, I remember thinking, “I wish I could spend my youth here. In this moment, with these people. I am nothing to them, they are nothing to me. But we are good for each other. This can never be made again.” At that moment I knew they will make my heart ache for a long time.
In the years that followed I saw them, the people who carried the faces of the ones I liked enough not to love. “What’s wrong?” I wanted to ask them but all I could do was smile and let my smile tell them “I will see you for what you were. At least that I can do for you. The beauty of your innocence and hope I will remember it forever.”