I roll down my window hoping for the first time that I knew how to drive so that I wouldn’t have a confused witness to my impulse of moving forward by a mile and falling down by a heartbeat.
“Is everything alright?”, he asks me too often. I don’t bother to calm him down by saying ‘yes’ as I was doing an hour ago. Nothing I say can now convince him of my normality. So I let him drive and let myself collapse. I bury my face in my lap and breathe better by suffocating myself a little bit more.
He hums a song that reminds me of the love that now lives in a country I have not seen in a life that I will always guess inaccurately with a girl who has a serious case of klemptomania. Last time I called the stolen one, I was given a sorry and an address of a better therapist.
I let my ring burn my heart. I ask the driver to leave me somewhere no one can find me knowing he will not, he will take me home just like he doesn’t everyday, and he will make sure to greet me with a kind forgetfulness the next morning.
I wish I had kept more strangers like him in my life, someone who would worry about me.
i sat on the sofa with my feet curled under the warmth of my wings while next to me, my sadness surfed channels and forced me to watch things that could make me cry but they didn’t.
someone has left the door open again but i can’t be bothered today with calling out to anyone. i hear someone talking about “…deserving to be lonely…” and my world, for a change, doesn’t budge, doesn’t break.
when the questions try to make a story from my wounds, i shed a feather or two and pretend that it hurts to speak of my loss. but it doesn’t really.
i have dreaded reaching this point, where being left becomes just a change in schedule. but now that i am here, now that i have nothing else to wait for, all that i am allowed to do is forget all my excuses, all my reasons, forget all the names. because unlike me this world has a bright future to dream of.
I wish for once to be unstable enough, to lose it for once, to kill every part of me that wants to take your name every minute of the day, to throw away this shit that you have engraved me into- into your bigger plans, into your list of exes, into the list of girls who would never be good enough for you, into the the stories you would prepare in advance for you next girl, stories with my name, into the list of people you block and regularly check on just to ensure they do not find happiness without you. I want to do something other that to be bothered by your existence, to be obsessed of my role and use in your life, that is now separate from mine. I want to be myself for once, than to be just another girl whom you no longer want.
i did all that i must do and now no one asks me what’s next. thankfully, no one burdens me with with their dreams anymore. i am no longer a possible candidate for the worst, for taking over the misfortune of my mother’s life. i no longer have to worry about hurting my parents by being like them or living like them. thankfully, what bothers me, what eats me up is nothing that would keep anyone else awake and that is important.
in spite of this emptiness i write about and this loneliness that seems bigger than this world, all this do not stop me from laughing at jokes, craving for food that i shouldn’t eat, dreaming of another broken love with my only lover, from having a good time – that i will conveniently forget. nothing i cry about, no ailing that lives in me is too large to stop me from living.
i guess i carry an instability in my genes. if my eyes are in the color of sadness, i guess i got it from my parents. and they are lovely people who somehow raised me right in spite of having a tendency to mess up things and their sadness with life.
tomorrow i will probably hate them frequently again but they will nag at me when i reach home drenched in rain, will tell me sit straight and force me to eat what will keep me alive, will ask me to keep my phone down, and sleep a little bit more.
they will not ask what’s wrong and that will disappoint me, but they will let me do what i want to do (sometimes) and they will try their best not to wrong me. they will wish for my happiness, even if they have no idea what makes me happy and that is important.
because though i lived my extended teenage believing that i had no one, but it was not true. i saw no one and it is my fault. even when i thought i was not loved they have loved me silently. though it was a tiring love, it knew no end.
please don’t ask me how my friend is doing. we broke up. we broke up the most decent way friends can break up. without deceit, without betrayal, without cruel words or bloody knife on our backs, without stories to hurt each other with, without attempts to patch up things, without deleting each other’s number that we never bothered to memorize. i do not remember her till someone says her name and when the sound of her name finds me through a stranger’s lips, i do not feel bitterness. i not miss her. a part of my heart is glad that life didn’t turn her my enemy but a part of me wonders how she turned out to be nothing in my life. when i see facebook notifications with her name, when i get a reminder of her birthday, when she calls me up once in a blue moon to ask a favor for “her friend” without bothering to ask how i have been, what is it that am i supposed to feel? i think it should hurt in some way. i am waiting for it to hurt. i am waiting to realize the meaning of this loss. i am waiting for the day I miss her. i want to miss her so much.
I want to write about the boring,
about all that is insignificant,
about the trust that lasts,
about the promises that are kept,
about the things we don’t have to beg from god.
I belive there must be some things in life that goes as we wanted to, that didn’t take our effort, our prayers to go right, that fell into place so naturally that we didn’t even notice the ease they gave us. The boring that is neglected, that is mocked must be a dream for a person I don’t know of. The days of charity and donation, the realization of the lack that we don’t experience hits us only briefly, gives us only short lived sadness or gratitude and a bit of pride (that has a little longer life) in ourselves for venturing out of our boredom to witness the lacking of others, to distribute a bit of what we have in abundance.
But I am not that changed, I am not that affected. Tomorrow when I wake up I will forget about the stomachs that are never filled, about the dry glass and throats, about the darkness that night brings, about little curious eyes that will never see a book. Tomorrow, again I will shamelessly write about my need for love and acceptance.
But that is how I am and with time I have learned not to feel guilty for being like this, for that is the kind of human I was made to be. I will only be bothered by the small bruise on my face, the small cuts on my hand, even if I know the existence of greater pain, for that knowledge is not an anesthetic . I am a petty creature like that and I can only really feel my own loss.
I tell myself stories about why I threw away all that I had, or why everything was taken away from me. How I was too weak, will always be too weak to carry the weight of the gifts that I had. Or how I was never quite convinced that I had something to be proud of. How I was always trying to gauge how much deep my feelings ran for everything that I could only sort-of-love. I can list all similar attempts where I sought a better quantitative understanding of my specialness and used these unreliable results to decide how and when to give up. But if I had to give one consolidated story of why I was never a failure at anything, why I never succeeded, why I had nothing to show for the years I lived or for the talents that people remember me for. If I had to be concise and true I would say I never made those decisions, I was never aware of how I felt about all the things that bother me now. I drifted away from what I was, from what I treasured, the way dear friends lose touch, lose each others name, lose a happiness they could have had. Only to be reminded of this loss when it no longer matters.
I hold my fist close to my heart, I hold your hand tighter than ever. How long has it been since we last saw each other? How long before we meet again? These few hours that separates our periods of separation, these hours have become minutes, have become question marks that we pretend we can’t see, have become the silhouette of the better women of your stories, have become the words I never got to hear. They remind me of your skin that bloomed and withered without knowing my skin. I have told myself numerous times that it doesn’t matter. I have tried my best not to be bothered, but it is becoming more difficult to feel that I am still loved by you. And again you kiss me with caution, hold me close, only to let go. Again all I see is you moving towards something I cannot understand, leaving me in a life that I cannot accept.
As I say that I am ready to break for you,
I wonder what is this breaking that leaves my mouth every time
I am asked to show what my love is.
Is that all I can do?
Is it what you are to me?
A reason to destroy myself?
I wonder if you ever said that to me
would it sound as poetic as it does to me
when I am the one gets to stand above the everyday trials
and promise to prove my love on a dooms day that might never come.
It is not the distance in time or uncertainty of this promise
that would bother me .
If you ever said what I do,
it would pain me more
to see that your love for me
is a time bomb for your own life.
How do you bear this pain,
that I can’t accept even hypothetically.
“Yes, I do have plans for my future my dear aunt.”
I say, after I see her put her cup down and look at me
with sympathy and resentment.
“How can we not worry.
It is your future we are talking about.”
Actually, I never had these conversation,
at least not with my aunt.
I never had such an aunt to bother me.
But there are relatives and other faces
that I am hiding under the name of a non-existent aunt.
Sometimes it is me who is hiding under that name instead.
I am handed down spare maps
that I am supposed to study and follow.
Mark my route and choose someone
who could help me get up in the morning
even if it out of hatred.
I am sure it will be hatred
because I have seen no one one who has sorted their life
to wake up feeling that they have done it right.
My bitterness might make me seem like
a remainder of uneasy and uncomfortable families,
but it is not so.
There are just too many non-existent aunts in our house
who thinks we could have done better, chosen better,
if only we could get our act together
and stopped acting like the world owes us some kind of happiness.
This constant re-evaluation of life
and its result coming out as failure every time
makes everything we live with
and everyone we choose as a mistake.
What is this “better” that doesn’t let us live?