so as the last effort to rescue me they came in, dressed in the ultimate cool lifestyle.
they handed me all the tools that i might need to break away from the ‘sad’ in me. they filled me up with clocks that told the wrong time, told me that i would get used to the thrill of it.
told me to scrape down whatever stands in my way to happiness. told me my happiness should now be keeping an eye on the better guy, the better job, better photos on social media to highlight the same, weekends in lightless room with strangers.
when i became nauseous from too much change, when i ran into the fire to save the idea i had of myself, they held me back, told me i would develop a taste for such things i just needed some help, some influence, some liquid courage, some castles of smoke, guts to throw away everything that doesn’t serve a purpose. they told me to talk like the ones who hurt me and to call it empowerment.
Now that we have buried all the clocks, a day passes only when our eyes meet again, night comes only when we say goodbye. And when I walk away from the shade of her smile, I think that I am forgetting something, something that would have made me sad. But her name, her words have grown ferociously, violently on whatever I once was. So it doesn’t matter I guess what kind of person I was till I can continue to be the person she loves.
you and the me that i was, that you hated once, but not as much what i am right now
you and your rough sketch of me that looks like bits and pieces of your past lovers
you and your ticking clock, both waiting for me to change
you and you habit of making me wait, of walking out on me
you and your empty seat that you have already forgotten
you with your air of arrogance that i pretend not to see for the sake of loving you
you and your smile that sometimes (most of the times) have nothing to do with me
you and your calls out of blue, calling me love, calling me heartless, throwing me away and calling me back,
you and your words, your voice always asking for more
you and your insistence of loving in past and hating in present
you and your love that wants never to be associated with me
you and your cruelty of always forgetting (only) me, forgetting the hurt you cause
you asking me to love you back in spite of all, asking me to speak only in sweet words, never asking me how i made it through the pain you gave me last time, never wondering what do i want out of this love, that has no place for me
There is only this life, that is made by imitation of stories. Stories that told me how to feel and what to say, told me to cry and ruin myself if you turn away, told me to leave my everything for your sake, never told me how tedious all this could become and how much frustrating it would be to have a love that doesn’t give me back all that I was guaranteed to get. What to do if I am no gentle virtuous princess or even a woman of strong heart and character but a person not even worth a mention, let alone a heart. What to do when I am indistinguishable from the gray crowd, when I am not so special and not so deserving of all that I want. What to do when my clocks have stopped in that one moment that I let myself down and every kind lover is separated from me by this distance in time.
I am tempted to walk into the night
and look for you
who has always stood
on the other side of my fear,
waiting for me everyday,
carrying a flower of hundred petals
petals that wither one by one
like the clock that marks days not hours,
days that otherwise would have been too long
if something didn’t tell us
again and again
that not much time has passed
and not much time is left.
Though by the waters of sorrow
that reach till my chest,
I can tell that it would be too late
and too futile
even if we meet now,
when all the happiness
that we came with has been spent
by our imprudent youth.
But still even if it is late
I want to come to you,
Even if I am broken
I want to be yours.
Even if for a day.
The morning drips from the hands of clock.
Soon there will arise a sky that tries its best not to look empty.
Soon people will walk about the streets
forgetting the sun that they had been waiting for,
forgetting the night they struggled to survive.
I almost collide with a person like that, like me,
who try their best
that their forgetfulness seems as genuine as possible
and rely on their faith that no one will be unkind enough
to give voice to what they see and know.
The longer I live, the aversion
I once had for all fakeness
is replaced with some kind of pity.
She looks at the clock.
The time tells
in 4 hours her husband has to leave,
she woke up too soon.
She wakes up and looks at the clock again.
In 20 minutes he will need his daily tea,
he sounds bitter all day
if it is not the first thing he sees.
She will have minutes to cook what he likes,
to check his ironed clothes and polished shoes.
Few more seconds till the door closes
leaving her in his house,
surrounded by his belongings,
and with the clock that has no plans for her.
and sits till she can’t feel this sting.
She looks at clock once again.
9 hours more for him to come back.