“The sky is your canvas”, the book to all ailments said, “there is a joy in filling it up with life.” But as I finished my 157th sketch, as I finished my 300th one, as I finished the one with no count attached (the one I called “the limits that were stronger than me”), as I write over all that I had drawn, as the clouds dragged themselves painfully crawling to some better place, like everything else in my life the sky remained unchanged.
And when I lost my hands to fate, to slow corrosion, to the burden of creation, to the lady in white who couldn’t even lie that “it won’t hurt”, to the painful work of making up things that I want, things that would want me back, or at least won’t walk out, to the hunch that said something is seriously wrong with the kind of life I have.
I wished for the man in the sky to wake up and get to work, to make me some rain, to drop an ocean of crystal on this world, to paint a heaven on this cheap sky of this miserable man.
Because trying on some days, on most days now, feels like living against the wishes of the world. I can’t help but break a bit, cry a bit even when things are right, because they right only because of my efforts. Can you give me something that I don’t have to work hard for, something that was made for me, something that I can keep. A thing, a person, a sign that I can hold in my hand that tells me that you want me to be happy, that you want me to smile, that I am not abandoned after all.
you, my love, my sky, my rain, my breaking heart, the lines of my fate on my aging hands, you, my collection of books that read me more than i read them, you, the beginning of my life.
i am beginning to realize the pain of dying, the prospect of being separated from the warmth of your back, from the home the turns into a hurricane that centers around you, centers around us, around the lightning in your heart. i am told there is only darkness where i am going. where i am going is a black hole of memories, there i will see you and not remember who you are.
The shoes I am wearing are wearing thin. I feel my clothes trying, trying hard to slip out of me and I don’t try to hold onto them. That is how I have always been.
I see an appproaching death, the sihouette of another ending that I won’t be able to take and I order another drink, I put down the book that was getting a bit more real that I expected it to be, and I wait with open eyes to witness the truth of every undoing that is in my fate.
This is me- the one who cries absurdly at a broken sole, at my frayed edges, at a day-long, a month-long, an year-short love, the one who tries to mean “till the end”.
The one who can only smile when called cruel and cold- that is also me.
The sandstorm is just another setting for this story to continue. There are no trees in our desert that could be broken. There are only lights that learn to flicker, there is only skin that knows what this wind carries, there are only roads that will drown.
With half closed eyes you walk out to search for what you have left behind. With half closed door I wait for you to return. I find another quote in another book foretelling the loveless life that will continue henceforth. Another book, another friend I must burn for speaking the truth, for wanting my best.
I am destined to die on the night of a full moon without a reason, without a witness, with a piece of broken mirror becoming a new part of my body- another prophesy that I wish you had not gifted me.
Three fairies sleep in our bed, who do not yet know the violence of your broken heart. I hope you get what you cry for, I hope you forget our names, I hope this storm saves us from every moon, every sky. I hope this storm saves us from you.
A pane breaks somewhere far away. Everyone precious to me stays there- this place called ‘far away’. So these things I must record, these things I must remember
“it could have been a stranger”, I try to reason. But it is of no avail. I am afraid that the life broken just now, must be too close to me for my heart to bleed so, for my hands to go limp.
The nights I read every book on ‘how to hide this incurable pain from my family’, they flash in front of my eyes. That is all I see when I dial their number and they don’t pick up. That is all I see when they pick the call and tell me that they can never be ‘not fine’. That is all I see when I see holes in their stories, when I see a new hole in their smile every morning.
Though the sky is filled with lights the nights on this land are lonely as ever. Again I am in love with a part of sky, with things that we call heavenly only because they are out of our reach, only because they are not ours to keep, because every god seems to love them more.
I end up on websites or with books that say “this is how the universe looks” “this how the stars are born” “this is the most beautiful cloud you will ever know” “this is something your tearful eyes can never see”. That for every drop of light there are an expanse of emptiness which we cannot imagine. That we are small and we are insignificant.
Funny how the love for things that I thought couldn’t possibly hurt me also takes me down the same path. The path that I walked once holding the hands of someone made of flesh plastered with signs of caution and warnings.
But it is different now. I guess the difference lies in who tells this news to me. If I am nothing, if this hurt that I feel because of you is of minor importance, if I have a life that will be easily forgotten, then I do not have to kill myself only to be remembered well. And maybe, just maybe I can forgive you for being human and myself for not being humane enough.
I think of the clothes that are too tight or too loose for me, of my skin that doesn’t like me the way it used to. How the mirrors in my home are hidden by the growing towers of books. I wonder what this says about me? I think of the fear that I feel when I am alone, the fear that I feel when I walk into happiness. I think of the kinds of fear that fill my heart. I count them for a long time but nothing happens when I finish counting. I wonder if knowing myself is really the first step to solving my life. Do I want anything to be solved? I count the people that who no longer speak to me and half way through I remember that it was me who had thrown them away first. Silence is my weapon, not theirs. I realize I need to always hold a grudge against someone to live with strength. I wonder when this strength became so important to me. I wonder when this love that felt like a lemonade in summer actually became a commercialized product with an expiry date stamped on it before it even reaches our hands. I think of my skin by which I am stuck to a world like this. I wonder why I pretend to be better than this world by saying such stuff? Why am I so into acting all deep and philosophical? I wonder why I love to call myself broken even though I hate to be seen so? Don’t misunderstand me. I do not want answers. Answers are painful and pointless, answers are a tasteless end to the struggle that otherwise makes my heart bleed colors.
We are the mediocre television soap that no one wants to see. We have learned to gulp down bland food, bland life. The books that get us jobs, get us friends, gets us love, we have learned to pay for it without bitterness.
We adore the mania, the depression, the moments when we don’t want to think clear- that makes us feel alive, anything like that, we are ready to call it love.
In our small hands we carry whatever meaning we have left in us- the offering that no gods want. We are ready to break for anyone who is ready to break for us.
When all things that are not divine found a home in me, I realized they would probably be the only friends I ever make. I read up many books and considered taking up some mildly destructive and slightly disturbing hobbies, so that I could know them better. So I could become someone they could accept. I looked for a teacher who could teach me how to love back darkness, how to become a wound itself instead of nursing one forever.
I want to say I found happiness in that one friend with sad eyes and bitter lips. But there still lived in me that one girl made of light who wanted to ruin me by guiding me back to life.