Some part of her has taken root here. In this forsaken place, she flowers and spills the soft resilient petals of sun on the dissolving roads, on the floods of blue. She lays her soft claim on the wings of unnamed birds, on the broken shrines, on the leaking instrument of word, on this throat that knows her name to be the only god capable of a love so tender that she becomes the holy wind in this sail of a skin, this skin that heals and breaks and blooms with blood, only to become, only to remain as the last trace of an impossible embrace.
How false this all is. Let’s imagine something truer. Something true like returning to the pain. I imagined another world devoid of distant fires. A room filled with moonlight and sorrow. Here I heard myself speak of the pain that I cannot forget, that I cannot stop to seek. I heard myself stupidly ramble about the cold settled in my stomach, the snow that had no winter to name as its mother, how I tried to seek another face that could make looking at my own bearable, how I broke everything but me because that was the only way to really hurt myself. I heard her cry. I asked her again and again how much more truer should my pain be for her love to become real, for my love to count. But I only heard her cry.
and when i come to meet you there are oranges buried in snow and grenades in fruit bowls. there is your smile that is locked in a room filled with flammables your new bedroom- you tell me as you turn away. i take steps towards this ruined shrine and a ghost, wearing all the dead roses of our world, holds a spear of your name against my chest. i step back and follow your cold body again through the corridors buried in rain. you stop suddenly and say something but miss it as i rush into you, through you, through the fragile wall and doors of another breaking dream and i am here again, alive and distraught under this comfortless ceiling of reality.
so my blue dream is not even mine now. i am just a mesh of people who hate me. their fingers are my fingers now poking my skin, endless railroads of red are built with their nails that they do not even cut before they sell me their fake love-filled eyes. their eyes are my eyes that wants to smash every reflective surface where i fall. every reflective thought is just a poison. a poison, a gossip, an untrue version of me running wild in the minds of those who look at me. they gossip about me so i gossip about myself , whisper my secrets into the air or better, into the ears of lovers who are chosen especially for their talents in indifference, vulnerability, and emotional violence. lovers who can break me – are all that i want. i need someone else to do this breaking for me because i am coward who can’t move towards the end i want, and also because my hands are busy. i have more things to do. i need my hands to tear my talents apart in the name of value, tear my feelings apart in the name of my worthlessness. i need my hands to paint again and again. paint indifferences on my insecurities that come a bit too often to the surface of my skin now, paint laugh lines on the bleeding corners of my lips, paint dreams of love, moments of hurt, grand betrayals on my otherwise lonely mind, paint humans that match the shadows in me, painting causes and assurances. i must paint. i must paint a reason- a reason why i suffer so, why this world works like how it does, why i must break as the world breaks, why i must break even for fixing this world. i must paint a face so that others don’t break at the sight of my face. i clip my nails everyday so that when i become someone’s ghost when someone suffers because of me at least my hands won’t leave them scars.
The words are brittle the ones they ask me to eat. I was told this is how you forget but it really doesn’t work. It always leaves a mark on me, claiming a bit more of me. My throat would have shined, would have dazzled the world, if they could see the shards of glasses that are stuck inside, that decorate my wind pipe. Only I know how my voice and my hunger makes its way out of this maze. Like the thief in the movies avoiding the lines of red, I move within my body slowly, carefully, afraid if what I might encounter next. Next to this fear… words and speaking and performing in front of this world seems easiest part of existing. My words pushed out into the world are always wounded and broken. And they lie on the ground, in the hands that feel strange, already losing half of their bodies, their meaning already taking its last breath.
To speak is to see myself die in the hands of other and yet be spared, only to live a bit more, only to utter the next word.
Another piece of glass added to my collection. Another drop of blood shimmering at its end.
There are so many things that I wait to see again and none of them will do my heart any good. There are mountains and flags and footsteps all settled into the sleep, lost in this busy blue. Some call it drowning. Some call it the end of things. Some wait for it to rise and become the lonely peak once again. Some like me float my boat on this ocean all dressed in sad flashy optimism with my poor eyesight and a grainy foresight ready to cry. Some like me wait for the things they fear, wait for the things that break, that tear.
All beautiful things of past are now buried under a common grave with no stone, no epitaph. I can’t tell apart my love from theirs. My growing years, my diminishing heart, the roads that I promised never to walk on, the hands I promised never to leave- they call it theirs. They hold it in their arms whenever after years of aimless floating their boat gets caught by a shadow that wants them.
Meanwhile I am afraid of holding back anything that tries to stop me. Every pull frightens me that I might love something that is not mine that I will never know if this happiness is just my sickness of water, sickness of search and waiting. I can never look anyone in the eye in the fear of seeing someone else’s tears, in the fear of seeing my own corruptibility reflected.
And yet I can’t seem to end this search for there are so many things I fear I will never feel again if I end it all here. Though they happen to be the same things that I am incapable of believing in ever again.
When I talk of the moon that shines on us in our sorrow, as we promise to do better and be better, I am again omitting something that needs to be said. Something that everyone reading us should know, before they tell us the best course to reach happiness from here, before they believe us when even we have learnt not to.
I am omitting that we are comfortable in our sorrows, that happiness is an alien land. We would rather break our hearts than visit that place where we don’t fit in.
I am omitting that we are obsessed about fitting in as much as we are about doing it without changing anything about ourselves. So we will only be what we have always been.
I am omitting that our love is primarily about navigating life with heavy hearts just to reach moments like these where we feel we can be forgiven as long as we forgive.
The moon that shines on us in our sorrow also shines on the absurdity of this refuge that protects us from nothing, on this love where there is no place for ‘better’. Even when we know that this is a cycle of pain and deception we revel in the fact that this won’t end like everything else in this world.
As my empty cup for tea came crashing on the floor, I heard another sigh escape me. I turned back from the counter and watched in resignation as the winds mercilessly pushed through the cushions, the magazines, the old discarded phones that made no noise as they came to find death second time.
The curtains and the window frames came apart. The sad smiles, barely visible through the annealed glass, cracked upon and my ancestors fled away, rejoicing for first time in the brokenness of this world. I recalled all the videos I had seen about the land of disasters and the restless hearts that live there. I recalled the reasons that cause such misfortunes, the incomplete distracted television reports. But I didn’t have to think of all that, to know what was happening to me.
The sky was clear and I could hear people walking to festivals and carnivals and towards to unbearable silence of funerals, trying to laugh as much as they can before they get there. I closed my eyes and waited with anxiousness, waited without hopes for love to appear again and make a mess of the life I had spent years to put together.
Sometimes when I forget to live, to see ahead, I find myself back again in the house of wood beside my child made of sand. He looks like me most of the days, sometimes she looks like him. They are often speaking like chorus of brokenness.
Some days they tell me that they are not mine, that they are not children, that I am not me. I ask them then why do I feel the way I do? why do I hurt the way I hurt? And hearing this they become the sand that I can only cry upon. They don’t come alive until another time.
But until that, I must be me, and see things not being themselves. The sand that was a life a second ago, it melts, it grows wings and opens its eyes and burns as sun.
Sometimes it opens it eyes and starts crying in my arms. It tears my skin, it makes me smile all my dying parts wake up but in a world where no such beautiful haunting exists where I have no reasons to cry only tears that never stop.