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.
I tried being cool about it. I tried not to call it a heartbreak. I tried forgiving. I tried thinking ‘my life is not over’. I even invented some feelings that can be talked about. I entertained the stupid idea – “it’s all for the best”. I fed it all I owned, and soon I didn’t have much left to keep that play going. I think there are still hundred things more that I have not yet tried. Maybe one of them would work.
Or maybe till I reach the end of this list, I would probably forget who I was or who you were, and maybe you would just melt into my identity – claiming 2% of my faults, causing 25% of my breakdowns, the major reason for my suspiciousness, the only reason I can’t seem to be myself. Just like how I pick up all odd habits and mannerism from people I don’t even recall, will you end up becoming things that I do without reason, becoming my convenient excuse for turning my back on anything that can become more important that me in my own life.
I wonder ‘me being right’ at what point of time it became synonymous to finding out that his heart is empty- my name washed out by the waves of the other girl. The girl whom he swore is not his type. “I was right”, I said as my hand trembled with anger and then fear as I waited for the reply, for the apology, a missed call from those whom I should not forgive. But the way my heart is breaking if only they would tell me that they still love me I could have held them close to my chest and thought of them as my family, as the blood that I couldn’t part with. I would have learnt to pretend that I was born with a dagger on my back.
I was right, I understood as I saw few more pictures not meant for my eyes. (these days there are so many things that are not meant for my eyes), as I try to digest the unfamiliar rage in his eyes, as he breaks and breaks and breaks every moment we had When I ask him “if should I stay around? if he’d change his mind?” he tells me he doesn’t know his heart and walks out into the night.
When I switch on the TV I almost expect to find my name in red, my body in red laying on the carpet that he loved but had to ruin for a good cause, for a greater love. This me, my death must be side effect of his love. His love is all that matters now. His love is not our love. Our love is an obstacle to the happiness he can almost reach.
She calls me up again to tell me how to gracefully give up. I hear him behind her, I feel his despair in her voice. (Must be true love.) I hear him hum a song in the background, a song that I have never heard. I hear the ruffle of his clothes that he moved from our life to her home one betrayal at a time. I hear what I don’t want to hear, what I always knew- they don’t want my forgiveness even if I gave it for free, I must mend my life by myself. No past love will do it for me.
Today I realized what to call all that I have been reading for so long. A person I didn’t mean to overhear called it ‘a sense of urgency’- the desire to save this world as soon as possible.
It seems the enemies are too many. I saw many names in the list of these enemies that I silently agreed with- pollution, dictatorship, bullying, monetization of education, competing in a rigged world, oppression of lives and loves of minority, hate crimes,…
I scoffed at some: the collapse of society in the hands of socially withdrawn, collapse of economy in the hands of those who want and do less, the unfeeling and unapologetic generation that seems to love depression, women whose learning and thinking too much only breaks families,…
“this is the cause worth dying for”- I suddenly became afraid of that feeling.
As I read all the absurd causes I couldn’t agree with. As I read and became exasperated at the words of those who were convinced that they knew better even as they killed and killed and killed and got addicted to seeing blood dissolving in oceans. I realized how dangerous this feeling could be.
“this is what to means to change the world. to change the world is to walk over everything I don’t want to see” My sense of urgency hated me for thinking this. It recited every quote about silence of good men. But all I could now see was the line that I must not cross, the words I must not say, the knife that I must never hold- no matter the cause.
i looked best dressed in incoherent words. everyone assumed that i am drunk on something. everyone assumed me to be an artist for that.
any word that left my mouth was just another way to pronounce self-doubt. the only way to stay and run away at the same time.
the way i speak, “you are beautiful” and “i hate you” sounds the same. the way i speak “i want to die” sounds same as “i love you”. my name sounds same as any other name.
what is the use of having this name that no one calls. so i sign the heart of my temporary admirer with “tear”, “snow”, “goodbye”, “sleep”…. with other sad beautiful words that cause less hurt than my name.
I want to see you before I forget you. I want to see if I can live without forgetting you. If I can avoid running away, if I can see you and not feel anything.
My love, my dependence on you, my feelings- you slept through all of it and now you do not know why I have changed, do not know how to be with me.
Let us be friends again. I can do that for your sake. Now it is probably my turn to sleep, to close my eyes on all that I feel, all that you are to me.
So when I tell you how my love has ruined me
be kind to me and ask me to give up.
Teach me how to give up.
Teach me how to give you up.
And I will be kind enough
not to ever let you know
that you were the cause
of all my confusion and all my suffering.
I walking around this planet talking about survival as if I actually lived to survive. I didn’t. There are many who do but they are not the ones who are filling the world with papers filled reeking of envy and tears. The ones who are really desperate, who really fear extinction- disappear as they fear without leaving a trace of the hurt that had so engulfed them.
I think I have it better. I know I have it easy. My pain though has become my life long mission it only drinks me up sip by sip, never finishing me in one gulp but to leave me alive and thriving in the illusion that the only one suffering in the world is me. If it does nothing else at least it feeds my ego to think of myself as some lost cause and I think if it was not for this belief in my great suffering, I might have seen my life for what it has always been. Realizing the reality of my life would have been greater tragedy for sure and maybe that’s why I held on so tightly to the illusion that I was already in one.
That day when it rained of
bruised and dying birds
of feathers marked with colors only
an arrogant and confident cruelty can cause,
everyone looked about for an umbrella
to protect themselves from this vision
that they didn’t want to witness.
This was not the historic moment
that they wanted to be part of.
I could understand their willingness to believe
that the marks of fingers in the blood and bodies
that filled up the roads
can be called natural causes.
It was probably better
than knowing the names of people whom we may have laughed with
only to know they know how to fly,
how to clip wings and suspend the decaying bodies in air
while we asked them the directions for our life,
while we asked them to tie up our laces as a child,
while we asked them to love us, and build a new life.
I guess even the innocent
got fed up of being looked at like a potential danger
or tired of looking for one.
It was probably more convenient to come to an understanding,
of agreeing on a made-up fact
that this all is part and parcel of being a bird in the sky,
that birds should know better than to fly,
and tempt innocent humans into life of crime.
Birds at their best should just chirp joyfully
and let everything slide.