How false this all is. Let’s imagine something truer. Something true like returning to the pain. I imagined another world devoid of distant fires. A room filled with moonlight and sorrow. Here I heard myself speak of the pain that I cannot forget, that I cannot stop to seek. I heard myself stupidly ramble about the cold settled in my stomach, the snow that had no winter to name as its mother, how I tried to seek another face that could make looking at my own bearable, how I broke everything but me because that was the only way to really hurt myself. I heard her cry. I asked her again and again how much more truer should my pain be for her love to become real, for my love to count. But I only heard her cry.
“The sky is your canvas”, the book to all ailments said, “there is a joy in filling it up with life.” But as I finished my 157th sketch, as I finished my 300th one, as I finished the one with no count attached (the one I called “the limits that were stronger than me”), as I write over all that I had drawn, as the clouds dragged themselves painfully crawling to some better place, like everything else in my life the sky remained unchanged.
And when I lost my hands to fate, to slow corrosion, to the burden of creation, to the lady in white who couldn’t even lie that “it won’t hurt”, to the painful work of making up things that I want, things that would want me back, or at least won’t walk out, to the hunch that said something is seriously wrong with the kind of life I have.
I wished for the man in the sky to wake up and get to work, to make me some rain, to drop an ocean of crystal on this world, to paint a heaven on this cheap sky of this miserable man.
Because trying on some days, on most days now, feels like living against the wishes of the world. I can’t help but break a bit, cry a bit even when things are right, because they right only because of my efforts. Can you give me something that I don’t have to work hard for, something that was made for me, something that I can keep. A thing, a person, a sign that I can hold in my hand that tells me that you want me to be happy, that you want me to smile, that I am not abandoned after all.
i am a girl who reads too much between lines, especially yours. and your words, they were cold but they were warmer than the pages they were written on. and since i wanted to love you i tried to see your world as one big adventure even when my heart was filled with fear. i tried to do things that might make you happy, to say the words that might put you at ease. though i suffered greatly, being with you made up for everything, or so i thought. but in the hope to be loved i bent a little too much forgot where to stop, i went overboard with the idea of sacrifices and promises and forgot to look at the blood and life i had lost.
“one day he would grow up, one day he would realize, one day his love for me, would actually feel like love“- were the words i lived by. but isn’t it pathetic that even when i have no use for these words, even my soul is more sore than alone, at night when i count the pieces of me, and the numbers just won’t add up, the thing that i am most sad about is that i was so easy to love and yet you couldn’t.
today’s sadness is brought upon by the increasing count of the words that i have forbidden myself to speak.
today’s sadness is brought upon by the particularly sad song that i have chosen to listen.
today’s sadness is partially due to the strangers with sweet eyes, partially due to my angels with weak hearts, and also the fact that i must love (and have loved) everything wrong without causing pain to anyone but myself.
i must write without baring myself. i must write to never let myself forget what i can’t speak.
do not write this, do not be mean, do not be ungrateful do not blame, no names, no dates, do not put anyone’s weakness on show
all such favors that i must do for the sake of my perpetrators and my protectors.
i must act like a better person, even when i am not in my fingers i am told to hold everyone’s shame and everyone’s guilt, and find my freedom in that.
today’s sadness is a breather, the rare moment i allow myself to see how messed up all this is, before i turn off the light only to stumble through life again.
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 do not want to be a child who thinks that the world is this window where i wait for you to return. but i am.
and you are also the one who has promised to never return. but you have made many promises and you have broken so many of it. i guess i am counting on you to stay true to who you are and break another one.
i have done well on all my exams. i have cleaned my room. i have eaten all the greens. you will be able to love me now.
they say you found love late and the ones in love never return to the loveless families they want to forget. have we been forgotten? are we your embarrassing childhood photo?
mother cries a lot these days and so i can’t cry anymore. i can’t cry anymore and i hate you for taking away my tears.
Any seat that I was comfortable occupying was always unbearably cold. People were right when they said that something was not right with me. For my flesh wanted to become fresh snow, my bones the lone tree under which sat my soul- a child learning to count the years of cold and whiteness, an innocent, forgetful, and aging brain living in a world with no song, no spring, no rain, to remind of all that is lost.
I kept typing and just when I thought this is it, this is what I want to say, 140 characters were over, the day had ended, you had closed your eyes, and turned your face to other side.
I told myself- ‘tomorrow, tomorrow i will tell you everything, tomorrow we will be happy. you may not love me again after i say all i need to say, but we will be happy, even if it’s on our own’.
I repeated this to myself as if i knew anything about your happiness. I repeated this as if I was counting sheep- sheep that have grown frail living on nothing but my words.
As another dark dream came to find me, I prayed that tomorrow may I forget all the words that can set things right. I’m afraid till the end I won’t change. I keep hoping that we keep walking together in this rain of sadness and hurt.
I can help you count everything you have. These objects have no meaning to me but I know something about life even if I don’t know everything. I know that your hands will stop shaking only if they keep counting, only when you have confirmed that you have not become poorer that you were a minute ago. I know that you don’t enjoy being like this, even though people say you are weird on purpose. I know that you have stars on your ceiling, only because the ones in the sky have abandoned you too many times.
So I will not tell you how to live your life. I will not force the disease of my heart into yours, in the name of cure. Build walls all you want, but keep me inside them with you.