The river rises, another flood is here and I haven’t yet learnt to swim. My friends are again at my door. They knock, then they start crying. They tell me about the happiness I can’t see, they try to predict what you would have wanted me to be, and all I can do is laugh at it all.
My laugh, it must be as frightening to them as my tears now. For even as they send me pics of kittens and quotes, and stories saved from fire, stories filled with hope, I hear their panic from the other side. They know that just taking your name had undone the strength they tried to feed me for months.
And since now they can’t breathe everytime I close my door, everytime I refuse to speak – I am another hell to them. And since I can’t let them break over me – they are another pillow pressing on my face.
I hope for them to let me own my sadness. I hope for them to not see and not know my pain. But they do, they feel so much of me that I have to open the door, that I have to let them hold my hands.
I tell them that I’ll live no matter what and they still tell me that it is not enough- they want me to be who I was. I can only smile at their cruel hopes for me.
She let go of me and took a step back, as I ran around all the space that would be me, all the life that would be ours.
From far away – the closest far away, she looked at my childish smile. She smiled a bit more, and I felt that, the lovely curves of her lips on my heart. Her smile always miraculously makes me breathe more easily.
In this room, in this warmest freedom that she has weaved from the most colorful threads of her spirit, here, I see her for all she tries to be, for all she is thereby. Here, I want to be seen her. Here, I want to be something more than my wants, something more meaningful than just free.
I move back into her embrace and ask her to take anything, anything beautiful she finds in me, to keep all my goodness, however few, in her care. I wanted her to grace a part of me with her identity, I wanted my existence to be inseparable from hers. But her will, her love turned out to be greater than mine. Even when I left a part of me in hers, she refused to call it hers, the world punished me, for my greed, by calling her mine.
Even when I run away from you. Even when I hate you from the depth of my heart- the same depth where only you can breathe, where I can allow no one but you. Even then you sit there, in front of me, reminding me how difficult it is to destroy this love, whose truth and strength outlives each sad, tragic moment that comes our way, each moment of separation that we are capable of creating from our ugly wants. Once I couldn’t have imagined the joy and frustration of having a love like that. A love that has no end when end is all I want. A love that tells me again and again that I do not really know anything and takes away the key of choice every time from my hands. A love that will not even spare me to stay alive. What a blessing! What a curse! To have this bottomless hope.
Now that I have grown in height and I cannot forget my name even if I want to, no one comes looking for me when I go missing.
When I go missing, when I finally succeed in getting lost I buy a new plant, walk through strange streets, come back home with with my worn out heels and new pictures on phone, takeouts from restaurants whose name feels weird on my lips, knowing more roads that can take me home.
I sit defeated and happy as I realize getting lost means nothing if I can breathe just fine in this world, if everything here can be my home.
But still there is sadness in me for losing everything that only that small world could hold.
In the orange forest of drowning suns I saw your face in the light going out first. I stood with my empty nets, on a boat, with oars that won’t budge, won’t sail away from your closing eyes. I played this only memory I had of you throughout my journey back. When my feet found a ground to breathe again, you had already grown bigger, sadder, scarier, sorrier presence in my life.
Through my dinner that night, I thought up names you may have had, the people you may have loved, the heartaches you thought would never end. I thought of how easily things end, how nothing in our heart can save our heart from this lonely end. Were you thankful or sad that you had to know this, to share this realization with a stranger made of cold eyes and numb limbs?
That night I looked for your body in every ocean I had in me. I don’t know what was the point of this search but I knew I had to do something about you, that my feet had to walk distances because of you, that something in me must hurt more than it did now. That finally I had to die with you, to know what I don’t know now, to know even a fraction of your pain. I was sad and relieved that my need to know you ended there – with that thought, with the steps I cannot take.
I keep waking up to a different reality, a different you and everything that you have been till yesterday seems like something my mind made up and all the love you have in your heart seems little less mine.
But I keep walking towards you even when I know I probably should not.
I keep waiting for words of truth, or words of sincerity, or words of past that I believed in to find their way back to your mouth.
I keep hoping that words will be enough, that you will be enough for this love to breathe again.
But I am also afraid that nothing you give up, nothing I give up can get back what we had, even if we tried.
On my closed hopeless eyes you placed your lips and something in me broke open. And I burst from within, from all my prisons. From all my pseudo homes I heard myself crying.
I heard the the noises of television in the heavy air of my living room die out, I heard myself breathe. I heard the knocks on my door and found all my lost selves staring at me one second, embracing me the next.
They told me it could be the blue moon, it could be the cyclone that is running wild, it could be the end of earth predicted too many times, it could be flowers-that-no-one-loves blooming in our land, it could my restlessness and fear of being left behind, it could be you.
As you sink into the couch, forgetting the nail you painted seconds before, as you look around frantically for remote, as you leave the evidence of beautiful color on my skin, I realized, that I found in myself the honesty to say out aloud, to tell you, to accept that it is probably you.
His face lit up with the death of every colorful explosion in the sky. He hates this sky on other days (among other things). Today he loves it, this darkness, this crowd, even me. (Maybe not me, but it doesn’t mean anything to me now. But in moments like this I am reminded of the “me” who would have wanted his love or at least be part of the world that can be loved. The ‘past me’ shakes off my hand and stands there looking at him as if he is her sky, but only finds the signs of deaths that have nothing spectacular about them. I stand there looking at my sadness, his sadness breathing the air and living some sort of life for once.) He stands there looking at the sky through my silence, through my awe, awe at his simple happiness. (How long has it been since he has loved anything with his breaking heart.) He stands there looking at the sky even when curtain of stars resurface, even when the screams of children dissolve. He stands there abandoned by the world and yet happy. (I stand there abandoned by him, by myself and yet happy)