the eyes made of glass stare at us with its kind open clutches held out. the eyes made of forgetfulness and remembrance in equal measure – they are beautiful. they sing of the most beautiful fear, the most hurting hope. and we sing back. me and my brothers – we sing like we have never known death as we hand over our hidden skin folded in half.
folded in half, we sleep in its arm and we invent love, invent warmth, invent meaning. we hear it breathing. we hear our lung collapse. we have brought something to life again. this machine of fear and ends – it breathes, it tears up and cries. i feel an ocean flowing into my eyes. the suffocation ends. and just like that there is nothing of us left with us.
somewhere we will open our eyes and stare at lips that sing of giving, we will feel our hollow insides echo with the memory of our own lightest steps we will look at the saddest sweetest children of this world and we’ll know ourselves through it again. we will know of the ocean in us when it leaves our eyes. and just like that we will be all that we couldn’t bear to live as.
When I talk of the moon that shines on us in our sorrow, as we promise to do better and be better, I am again omitting something that needs to be said. Something that everyone reading us should know, before they tell us the best course to reach happiness from here, before they believe us when even we have learnt not to.
I am omitting that we are comfortable in our sorrows, that happiness is an alien land. We would rather break our hearts than visit that place where we don’t fit in.
I am omitting that we are obsessed about fitting in as much as we are about doing it without changing anything about ourselves. So we will only be what we have always been.
I am omitting that our love is primarily about navigating life with heavy hearts just to reach moments like these where we feel we can be forgiven as long as we forgive.
The moon that shines on us in our sorrow also shines on the absurdity of this refuge that protects us from nothing, on this love where there is no place for ‘better’. Even when we know that this is a cycle of pain and deception we revel in the fact that this won’t end like everything else in this world.
in her two storey house my doll sleeps on her silk sheets with a knife resting beside her. it shines as if newly delivered and never used, as if sharpened hundred times, as if it has known the pain of blood every night, every night cleaned under the deafening noise of running tap water. the metal mixes with her fears, with her trembling hands. something again slips from her grasp. and now it is time for tears, and it will be soon time for cycles of search and paranoia. there is a time for every madness in her mind. there is always a calm wait before she reaches the next stage of hopelessness. there is always a party hosted at the dead end of her lives where she takes another drink, and finds hands filled with warmth and eyes that like the color of her healing skin, the burned tips of her tongue, and her swallowed words equally. but someone utters the wrong word, looks at her the wrong way, leaves the taps water, filled with smell of blood, running in her mind again, and again she lunges for the the knife that fits in her hand better than any hope and again she ends the song of her lover, again she wakes up alone.
I woke up in tears and I couldn’t go back to sleep.
As I slept, I felt things move around me, someone climbing down my window, someone flying out with unfamiliar and awkward wings. In my sleep I heard the unbearable wailing of my words that should have otherwise lying dead on my table.
I couldn’t go back to sleep. Because something was wrong. Someone was again changing me without my knowledge. Someone was again waiting for my gratitude to fill my lifeless words of thanks.
The moon was no longer a moon but an eraser waiting for me to sleep, so it can go on and erase everything that was left in this life. In the 3 hours I had slept away I had already lost memories worth 3 years so easily without even putting up a fight. Even if I didn’t know what should be here but no longer is, I somehow knew that I would always know that something is missing. I knew what that feeling will do to me. I knew how it would make me do everything that I regret having done. I knew all that because I have found myself so often at this point.
The point of forgeting – the forceful hands of God trying to pry open my hands, the painful flying away of my pain, the painful end of my love, the hideous and disgusting sight of my hands wanting something, anything to hold again at any cost.
I knew not to fall for this scheme again. So I walked upto the window, looked at all the sleeping rooms scattered in front of me, rooms where no one really slept. I looked at the concrete street below, felt its dangerous height in me, felt the distance between me and the true oblivion. I played with the dangerous power of choice before it frightened me with its truth. I heard someone laugh, before I turned back. I heard them back at their work as I found myself sleeping in the familiar bed of choices that never feel right. The only choice I want to believe I have.