The last stranger at the funeral home brought in the worst rain of the season, the coldest wind of the night along with your last letter. He leaned against the window and called up everyone he won’t be able to meet today looking at me all the while. As if he knew every word that I was reading. Probably waiting to see whether I cry at the same lines that he did. His eyes look like the ones who have got used to crying for things that cannot be undone, for a life that cannot be. I wondered if he loved you. Maybe he did. Maybe you knew. I hope you did. He sat beside me trying not to grieve more than a mother, trying not mourn like a lover, making himself invisible with every word i read under my tearful breath
“…even when I sat at the dinner table with my brightest smile and deepest hunger, i couldn’t convince me that i needed to exist here. even the warmest embrace of this world could do nothing but break me. i knew opening my heart could only bring floods and all ends of all kind. i knew all along of this end. forgive me for pretending otherwise….”
The cold that we depended on to hide our hearts didn’t last long. First our warmth, then our fire, then our wild will- one by one they convinced us why we need them, that without them we’ll never actually live. One by one everything we didn’t want to be stood facing us, climbing higher and faster on our ladders out of our hell. I kept repeating my lies and you kept repeating them back and tried to call it love.
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I scoffed at some: the collapse of society in the hands of socially withdrawn, collapse of economy in the hands of those who want and do less, the unfeeling and unapologetic generation that seems to love depression, women whose learning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.
Unlike your descriptions, the green doesn’t wait for the sun. It doesn’t know what waiting is, what the word ‘sun’ is, it doesn’t even know that you are the its spokesperson.
I am not coming at your throat dear, it’s just that I feel, as time passes that you see me more as that green than your woman.
You cut my sentences and give me used bottles of perfumes, of love that I must wear. The only thing you tell me about your day is how women dote on you and place you first in the list of men to seduce.
I remember I once said, “please don’t tell me, i don’t want to know” and you glared back, lectured me on openness and honesty and strength of love.
“i don’t want to know” I said it only once, because my I was afraid to say it ever again. And in my unreasonable fear, I understood that in this life of pretend, I had also begun to see you as another sun, even when you are not.
So, I am not coming at your throat dear. I am try to free myself from your hold, from your twisted idea of love, that is messing with my mind now. I am someone without you as well, and I don’t want to be convinced that I am not.
wave after wave of cold air, of sad premonitions reached us, tried to convince us that this was a really bad idea. that on a cold day like this there were easier ways to find warmth, ways that would take away no part of us.
and frankly i was afraid. i stopped maybe a million times on my tracks. i waited for someone to call me to remind me of something really urgent that needed my attention. i almost prayed for you to give up.
but you kept walking. you kept repeating that this would be fun. so even when your hands were shaking and even when your eyes were red, i chose not to notice it. i chose to believe that your heart is stronger, that you would get us there.
you were always better at pretending for my sake. you pretended to know all the answers while i shamelessly hid behind you when doubts barked at me on streets. so when we walk on the river that could melt any day, any moment i wanted you to lean on my heart for once.
my fearful weak heart was the only thing i could give. i knew my love would last only moments and yours would last an eternity. but selfishly i held onto you. so when i kissed you and you smiled, i want to say i felt sad and guilty, but i did not. i was just happy, probably the happiest on this planet to have touched this sun, this spring, this filler of all voids, to have become the reason you will break. i really am the worst.
I was convinced that if I wrote a bit more my skin will turn into the golden sand that lines the beach that I write of, that I can finally dig into myself without bleeding, without anyone’s help, without anyone’s love, and find something of value in myself.
But when I reached that shore and I saw that sky I forgot to dig, to look for myself. I sat there and thought ‘I am lucky to see this beautiful sky’. In hindsight, I think it was fortunate (and surprising) that I didn’t ruin that moment, that feeling just for the sake of finding myself.
I tell myself stories about why I threw away all that I had, or why everything was taken away from me. How I was too weak, will always be too weak to carry the weight of the gifts that I had. Or how I was never quite convinced that I had something to be proud of. How I was always trying to gauge how much deep my feelings ran for everything that I could only sort-of-love. I can list all similar attempts where I sought a better quantitative understanding of my specialness and used these unreliable results to decide how and when to give up. But if I had to give one consolidated story of why I was never a failure at anything, why I never succeeded, why I had nothing to show for the years I lived or for the talents that people remember me for. If I had to be concise and true I would say I never made those decisions, I was never aware of how I felt about all the things that bother me now. I drifted away from what I was, from what I treasured, the way dear friends lose touch, lose each others name, lose a happiness they could have had. Only to be reminded of this loss when it no longer matters.
As I use your ideals and words as the dressing to the greens that I hate, that I find hard to chew, I try to make myself understand you, convince myself that I am in wrong and I just know it yet. I remind myself that this time I can’t get it wrong, that this time I can’t run from all that I have chosen. I have lost a lot just because I wanted to live as me, I can’t loose you as well. When I begin to hate myself for losing my life in your eyes, I tell myself that one day I would thank myself for holding onto you in spite of all. So when I break and when it hurts, when I see that all this is not good for me, I crawl into your embrace silently asking you to tie me to yourself, to stop me from ruining all that we have.
There was never a point of time when I could sit back and say- “This is home. This is where I will always be. No one can take me away from here. Here is where I am bound to be.” Because I could never hold onto anything even when I wanted to.
I was always convinced that there is something very sinister in me that would be seen, that would show itself sooner or later, that I am not all good. In fact being good is not in my nature, but just something I carry out so that people can try to love me, a behavior I often dropped when it suited me.
But as much as I am repelled my nature
I also end up finding myself pitiful for how I end up alone
and knowing my flaws
doesn’t make me hate myself enough
to stop me from demanding some consolation from my life
for making it so far.
I want to believe that I at least deserve
a small happiness of my own,
if not the joys of entire world.