the towers are open to the public now. the crowd can now crow and row and climb to the better views- a softer light, a smaller distant world, the illusions of gods growing on our own earthly skin. this radiance was supposed to mean something else, something more, something new though. but these deafening footsteps, this meaningless chatter, these houses now growing like shrooms, the clothes now drying on every step, the resurgence of life and the blooming bruise, the grass growing, the herds living and dying in the shade of the tower- they only make me cry. even in their most wretched moments they still remain things i can’t have. the singular monument of hope and its playground of chaos and me, the only child who doesn’t belong, looks up at the promised sky, feeling a new hollowness creeping. feeling myself break for the same old things in new ways.
The “sweet escape” is now more expensive and better hidden in a packaging devoid of bubble wrap and crumpled newspaper (how does that even work?) I can no longer remember why it caught my eyes. But such things normally do, so I don’t question it much. “Such things” almost always refers to things that I will always see and be drawn to, but never get near. And I am not talking about the bare minimum semblance of love, or the friend who must eat food without me to feel accepted in this world. Now that is out of the way, we can all imagine with utmost accuracy and pity everything that is definitely on this list of mine. Things I know the price of because my pockets are empty. The kind of empty a drop of dew feels in front of a desert(even the smallest one). This is not even a smallness fueled by insecurity or class consciousness. This is the lens of pure objectivity at work, which I sort of stupidly relied on to cure me, stop me from showering my attention to something that challenges my place in world in the wake of release of a random new replaceable product in market. which is sort of weird because I do not know the price of the meal I eat or the clothes I wear – I feel them. So I know better. I really do. But the billboards that fly over the cities -abducting cows, and UFOs, and fixed deposits, and basic sanity- make me want to dial the number to someone, anyone who can get me a card that, I am told, can get me every luxury I do not yet deserve. To my credit, I never dialed that number simply because wanting something that was designed to be wanted seemed stupid, poking a hole into the balloon of my existence for it seemed stupid. In the list of more stupid things I can now “not want” are grand expectations of a basic acceptable life, minimum respect, of love, of family, of wanting a fair chance at a dream, of food that tastes like food, and air that doesn’t clog my lungs. I am told that at a price one can have them all but to the one who is barely afloat it sure is a stupid thing to want.
There are no dances waiting for us, no innocent moments of sunlight, no darkness or headlights striking our windows, nothing worth the wait. We are stranded here in this life. We are stranded on a planet far away from our home- a home that becomes more and more beautiful, the more we are convinced there is no way back.
Here the days are longer than our lifespan combined. Here we record 50 goodbyes to ourselves a day. The air, the hurricanes, the rain, the smile, this peace of mind are all just luminescent chemicals that delivers more than its promise of a near death exhilaration.
The rainbow of lies is our constant sky the friend we cannot live without. It is the only thing that helps us live with the dust of betrayal that settles on the clothes left out to dry- another thing we much dust away and forget, another thing we must do to be called a “good sport”.
I sit here knitting another version of my beautiful glorious past, another tribute to the world filled with rare ordinary and you sit across me complaining about what the world has come to as you paint my brain to match the new you- one less insecurity in this perfect world.
“i was born like this”, I lie, when I really want to say
“the normal ones, the sane ones are surprisingly excellent at breaking anyone without any guilt whatsoever.
i no longer have strength to leave them, or beg them, or handle the repercussion of wanting them.
i fear them only when i cry though i am not exactly sure why it should be so.
the positivity, the kindness, the unity, the charity, the world peace that they talk about looks so beautiful when put in action for example, there are holes in me though i have never seen a bullet in my life and i am not allowed to say it is their doing “it is a result of my negative thinking and bad karma” i parrot like i have been taught to.
this burnt skin, this distrustful heart, the layers of clothes that are prerequisite of proving my modesty if god-forbid i let loose an animal in someone just because i exist, the logs of missed calls and blocked calls and blocked memories that are the only things protecting me now. this is how i was born.“
Though absurd, it sounds like truth the more I say it. This is how I hurt whatever is left of my heart.
After a long time, I feel like walking towards the calm unknown. The wildness in me that I had thrown away, is waiting for me. They were always waiting to tell me all the gossips of stars and fishes, how lost and alone they both felt to know that blue they had in common were totally different worlds.
The clothes that made me look somewhat beautiful I fold them with care, leave it somewhere you won’t miss. Their newness would be the new metaphor for sadness, sadness – yours and mine.
There must be a magic to undo this curse of our feelings. There must be an answer, a life that doesn’t necessarily need us to be together. I will ask the cruel fairies that live in dying breaths to make you forget me at sunrise, to make me feel something for you again, as my life with you ends.
I think of the clothes that are too tight or too loose for me, of my skin that doesn’t like me the way it used to. How the mirrors in my home are hidden by the growing towers of books. I wonder what this says about me? I think of the fear that I feel when I am alone, the fear that I feel when I walk into happiness. I think of the kinds of fear that fill my heart. I count them for a long time but nothing happens when I finish counting. I wonder if knowing myself is really the first step to solving my life. Do I want anything to be solved? I count the people that who no longer speak to me and half way through I remember that it was me who had thrown them away first. Silence is my weapon, not theirs. I realize I need to always hold a grudge against someone to live with strength. I wonder when this strength became so important to me. I wonder when this love that felt like a lemonade in summer actually became a commercialized product with an expiry date stamped on it before it even reaches our hands. I think of my skin by which I am stuck to a world like this. I wonder why I pretend to be better than this world by saying such stuff? Why am I so into acting all deep and philosophical? I wonder why I love to call myself broken even though I hate to be seen so? Don’t misunderstand me. I do not want answers. Answers are painful and pointless, answers are a tasteless end to the struggle that otherwise makes my heart bleed colors.
I am floating towards you against my own will. I struggle and loose against my fate, against what my heart loves. I am floating in your eyes in spite of all my flaws. I am happy that you love me.
I am floating again, floating away from you and my heart has forgotten the love I had for you. But I fear somewhere in me your are still there, hiding at places where I won’t look. So I keep looking you, so that I can be free from you. I keep looking you, even when I don’t want you.
In my sleep, I open a door to another dream where I drift in the endless ocean wearing the clothes I once wore on a school trip, on a boat that capsized on a show that I saw long ago. As I lay blinded by sun, by hunger, by life I uttered your name again and again, as if you are somewhere near, as if you would answer. Your name was the only happiness in that world. Your name was my only sorrow.
i close all the doors as if a storm in coming, as if closed doors can protect me from something so huge, as if hiding is a better option than fleeing. ‘i wish i had created more places to hide in my life’ i thought this as tried to burn all my best clothes as if i will freeze to death otherwise and nothing i wear, no new face i paint on myself will deflect or reduce the hate in the eyes that look at me. soon i had nothing to burn, nothing to destroy. only resentment against myself, only a feeling of failure continued to live in this body growing each second, trying to push me out.
I dreamt of a cold day, of a gray sky, of your warmth dissolving in air, of your smile being erased.
I lay on your bed surrounded by, covered in all the clothes you won’t ever wear. I saw myself crying, refusing to eat or sleep waiting for a new world to be created or to leave the world that I am in.
But eventually I woke up, I cleaned up my room, I threw out everything that mattered to me. I went to shop for a stomach that knows hunger a heart that can forget, a dream, a life without you. I thought I loved you more than this.