There are so many things that I wait to see again and none of them will do my heart any good. There are mountains and flags and footsteps all settled into the sleep, lost in this busy blue. Some call it drowning. Some call it the end of things. Some wait for it to rise and become the lonely peak once again. Some like me float my boat on this ocean all dressed in sad flashy optimism with my poor eyesight and a grainy foresight ready to cry. Some like me wait for the things they fear, wait for the things that break, that tear.
All beautiful things of past are now buried under a common grave with no stone, no epitaph. I can’t tell apart my love from theirs. My growing years, my diminishing heart, the roads that I promised never to walk on, the hands I promised never to leave- they call it theirs. They hold it in their arms whenever after years of aimless floating their boat gets caught by a shadow that wants them.
Meanwhile I am afraid of holding back anything that tries to stop me. Every pull frightens me that I might love something that is not mine that I will never know if this happiness is just my sickness of water, sickness of search and waiting. I can never look anyone in the eye in the fear of seeing someone else’s tears, in the fear of seeing my own corruptibility reflected.
And yet I can’t seem to end this search for there are so many things I fear I will never feel again if I end it all here. Though they happen to be the same things that I am incapable of believing in ever again.
Are they finally drowning? The sails, the flags, the songs the party, and the expensive backless silks. The rings and guns and blood shining. Always shining. They are finally coming for us. We will again have someone’s face in front of us at least for a while and we will sing songs that they have no choice but to listen to. The cries and shrieks and the stories that we had saved in us will not go waste.
They have not yet seen us rotting feets and feets below them but somethings take time. The water will fill them but they will never grasp the slow violence and its finality. They will look above at the lost sky, they will not know what they are looking for as the concepts of hope and god and saving becomes grayer in their head. They will keep struggling feeling all promises becoming breathless in them and they will miss the point of saying goodbye. We always do.
Darling, they are coming our children, our neighbors, our dear strangers, our ministers, our wood, our sky, our eyes, our new memories. Now we can die together and actually die and not be haunting blue in this green ocean. I missed living dear but I missed them more – everyone, everything taken away from us. We have waited patiently, wishing them life. We have prayed for them to stay away from wherever we are. But now they are coming and I cannot help but selfishly smile at seeing everything coming back to us.
I regret to tell you this that the blue sky that you died for is not longer blue. It is painting its face with remains of our greed, with the colors of our wars. But it is still sort of fair. It is trying hard not to choose sides, not to become the flags that unites only those whose favorite words are ‘future’, ‘safety’,’money’, ‘greatness’, while they clutch in their hands the fate of people they don’t identify with- ‘burden’ they call them. ‘Fear’ is another favorite word of theirs. They don’t speak much of it, but it is most useful or at least that’s what I have heard from the ones we are no longer allowed to call out or even mock. I have lost every bit of my passive aggressiveness. Life has become more bearable now that my skin is not broken for making too much noise, now that we have learnt to hold each other’s tongue so that we may not lose more friends than we already have. I regret to tell you that your dreams will remains dreams and you might be one of the last to know how dreams felt in your eyes, how tomorrow used to change by effort.
The list of all the words that I use and don’t know meaning of:
friend, understanding, dream, ethics, distance, space, wait, promise, family, kindness, virtue, trust, love, love, love, love, love, love, (I was told I need to be especially obsessed with love if I want to be normal) I, me, memory (real or invented), boundary between reality and fiction…
What a poor human I am that I carry around these empty shells pretending as if I know their worth. All the flags that I carry of the countries to which I do not belong. All the people who I live with, only because I cannot live without them. What an excuse to walk on this road that will eventually to lead to a heartbreak. Every heartbreak a drop on my window and it has been monsoon for years altogether. What a sloppy way to end all things that I never wanted to begin.