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.
If we were to meet somewhere not here. If we are to be someone new, someone different, for the chance of meeting to finally happen. I think happiness, even then, won’t be of any consequence to us.
You and me – we – would find warmth just in the vision of our open arms and tear-stained faces. We would run into each others arms and not utter any other useless promise. We would tell each other without words that we can be fine by just being together.
Yet, we – you and me – will find ourselves filled with disappointment and sadness and a blooming bitterness filled with light. For the ones who fought and cried and begged and desperately clinged onto the promise of love- this love can exist only without them.
In reaching you, in finding your heart on the other side of mine, it feels that I have just been carrying on the wishes of someone who loved you a bit more, a lot more than me, a lot more than this. The hand we hold as we sleep today, they have held knives. I know the scent of my end on your being. I move in closer to you, trying to remember the me who smiled only for you and you hold me closer trying to waiting for something similar.
The ones who wanted this love have been long been killed. the ones we want are ourselves. “Do you even remember where you have buried me?” I almost said but instead I said soulless words about some love. Hoping to find at least this answer without your help.
it was once possible to be a parrot who was a doctor who sang in a choir of angels who saved the world from villains with ridiculously evil funny names.
it was easy to speak of wants- a pair of shoes with lights and a glow in dark radium cello tape and an army uniform and cream rolls and a tiara with anything that shines and the cards i don’t know how to play and…
once i used to be simple. i left my sleep to live like the guy who runs for hundred years to rescue the princess. waiting to reach a blurry 8-bit princess that never shows up at any castle of my world was not a source of disappointment (or depression) then.
Another hour passes by, without your voice, without the hope of you coming back for me. “Why has this world turned against me like this”, I want to ask this, but I can’t because isn’t this how things normally are? Isn’t this the world I have always lived in?
Though my heart should explode, from losing you, it doesn’t. Just countless hours pass by while I try to live the life that I have always failed at living. Love is not a bitter word anymore, it only hurt me when we loved. Now it is another word, another person who doesn’t need me.
I wanted to be adored unconditionally,
cared for without limits.
In that dream
there only existed me
and this love.
There was no room for any other mortal human,
no room for weakness except mine.
There was no room for you.
now come here, come inside and cry how much ever you want. we don’t want the neighbors to know how much worse we are doing than them. trust me dear, it does no one good if you go around with these puffed eyes and cracking voice.
you know, these days it is not wise to act out frustrations you never know who is idle enough to observe us and label us as another example of a failed generation, a disappointment, write an article on how luxury has spoiled these children, that we are just a bunch of aimless attention seeking humans who refuse to grow up, that we are weak to indulge in something so petty. they will hand you the list of people who are doing worse (i have plenty of those stuffed in drawers, just in case if you are curious to know what it says)
i know nothing is right but it will be. we will make it right but till then do not wait for kindness, do not expect understanding. if you get them be grateful, but don’t wait for someone to come and pick you up. we will make through this not because we are strong enough to face all this but because this is not the first time our lives are wrecked by these unacknowledged pains. like always we will break ourselves and grow smaller in our attempts to grow up.
Everything that reminds me of what I was
leaves me helpless.
Everything that tells me of what I could be
leaves me expecting,
makes my skin weak,
makes the wound stay.
All the right word you utter
is like the air carrying scents
of a distant garden.
The garden that I will never see,
for I am a person who lives with roots
deep into disappointment.
And though I try to cut myself free
from what hurts me most,
but they are still my roots
so my freedom almost feels like a death.
For long I have lived
avoiding a lot in life.
The sting of disappointment.
The pointless chatter that becomes
a habit. A lovely company.
The colors that didn’t suit me,
colors that I loved just the same.
But now I miss the life in my heart
and the pain that made skies and stars more bright,
that made earth more warm, and love more necessary.
. When the pain hits my face
. (those hands used to the have the softest touch)
. my skin would have broken up in the ugliest ways,
. if the same hands wouldn’t have rushed
. to cradle the crying me
. without losing a second.
. The pain was gone as soon as it came.
. This skin has a way of healing
. that seems to me as
. an unfaithfulness,
. a betrayal.
. As if, even my body
. didn’t want to leave any evidence
. that could justify my tears and my mistrust.
. I have again invited the pain, the consequence
. of being “broken too many times”.
. The word “broken”
. seems like a shiny ornament
. that is meant to distract my eyes,
. my eyes
. that are anyway not capable
. of seeing things for what they are.
. I no longer trust my mind
. that doesn’t know
. the reason for the anger (that I awakened in others),
. the disappointments
. written in neon lights on the darkening faces,
. that doesn’t have any account of how I ended up becoming
. a person
. this bad, this wrong, this fragile, this cruel.