“What do you know of prayers?” she asked, as she held my hands together within her own. I asked her “Don’t you know anything about me?” and there appeared another crack on her hands, there bloomed another rose in her hair there was another smile – the “looking down” smile, “you don’t know any better” smile, “you will soon thank me” smile, “I know you hate my smile” smile. I tried to imitate it, to drape it on my own face. Cause even if it didn’t seem like that, I loved her smile.
I stared at her smile wanting to save it somewhere in me. I stared at her small beautiful parts wanting to un-see the person she is in this moment. I am always trying to forget how suffocated these moments with her are. I am always trying to forget that with her words of love there was always a plea, a suggestion, a manipulation – to make me something like her.
Would it make me seem pathetic, petty, or romantic? if i called her a poison. Though everyone here is a poison, even me, but she is a poison for me, the only poison that works on me. The only one I didn’t want a death from. She tells me about another deity I will never believe in. She tells me a bit more about saving, about faith, about her own self that can never be broken, how even breaking can’t end her now. I wished she was right, I wished there would be never an end to her.
I wished for all kinds of ends for myself, even the ones without her. But in no version did I invent an agreeable version of her that will better for me. She has to be herself. Whatever that might mean for me. I wonder if there would come a day like that, a day when she would love me like that. Do I even want a day like that? Can I even tolerate a change in her? Wouldn’t that break me more than anything?
I get up and say something about “better things to do” and she says something about “the dangers to the faithless” and I can only smile for now at this weird, beautiful, messed up part of our life at our of differences, knowing of love, at our knowing of faith in different things that save us in their own ways.
The river rises, another flood is here and I haven’t yet learnt to swim. My friends are again at my door. They knock, then they start crying. They tell me about the happiness I can’t see, they try to predict what you would have wanted me to be, and all I can do is laugh at it all.
My laugh, it must be as frightening to them as my tears now. For even as they send me pics of kittens and quotes, and stories saved from fire, stories filled with hope, I hear their panic from the other side. They know that just taking your name had undone the strength they tried to feed me for months.
And since now they can’t breathe everytime I close my door, everytime I refuse to speak – I am another hell to them. And since I can’t let them break over me – they are another pillow pressing on my face.
I hope for them to let me own my sadness. I hope for them to not see and not know my pain. But they do, they feel so much of me that I have to open the door, that I have to let them hold my hands.
I tell them that I’ll live no matter what and they still tell me that it is not enough- they want me to be who I was. I can only smile at their cruel hopes for me.
All the windows in this world are aligned in one line tonight. One line of sight is enough to hold all the meaning and everything there was left to see.
All the places I could have gone to, all the places that I own just by my passing through they are but one. The world is just one person, whose hands are laced through mine.
The world that was so difficult to approach had found me finally. Finally I have spoken the words of love to the one whom I feared I will never reach. How simple is this happiness of walking forward, walking towards this smile. How simple and beautiful is this feeling now that I have found it.
How sad are the hours that follow, the hours that push the world out of my view again. Yet how comforting is this love that doesn’t leave my side even when we have run out of the easiest moments.
How are you? Are you still there where we learnt to leave? Since you left I have changed my address a few times already. My heart doesn’t lie broken on the streets that only you could walk. I find it funny and interesting and sad that once I believed in “one and only love”, that once I believed that I have found what the rest of the world could not.
My hands don’t feel like my hands now, Now that my hands have reached out for love even after you. My mind doesn’t feel like my mind, now that my mind can forget any hurt caused by love, now that my mind can easily rewrite love as something else something trivial, something passing by, something non-existent, the moment I am near another light-filled human who only wants a breaking out of me.
I feel less like myself, the more I heal myself. Whatever grows out of me doesn’t want to be anything like the person you loved, the person I was so proud to be, the person who couldn’t live without wounds.
It hurts less in the body I am now in. It hurts less to know finally that I am more than enough to fill the void of my own size – the everyday lacking that I always felt I needed to do something about.
I find it funny and interesting and sad that I could learn to live only by losing you, by learning to walk away from you.
Even when I run away from you. Even when I hate you from the depth of my heart- the same depth where only you can breathe, where I can allow no one but you. Even then you sit there, in front of me, reminding me how difficult it is to destroy this love, whose truth and strength outlives each sad, tragic moment that comes our way, each moment of separation that we are capable of creating from our ugly wants. Once I couldn’t have imagined the joy and frustration of having a love like that. A love that has no end when end is all I want. A love that tells me again and again that I do not really know anything and takes away the key of choice every time from my hands. A love that will not even spare me to stay alive. What a blessing! What a curse! To have this bottomless hope.
When I have gathered enough courage the only piece of metal in me that can still cause harm are only the frustrations I have at my own cowardice. What do I have to lose today, that I couldn’t lose yesterday when I was busy resenting you. After seeing and accepting the wrong that you are, after uncovering every wound, every decaying part of me that I didn’t want to face, after deciding on an end that would still be fair and gentle to your heart, why do I only hold you tighter? Why do I make up lies that only make it easier to make up more lies, make up a world where my hate is just a delusion, where you are the only one worth saving, worth love, worth my misery. And even in that world, why does our love won’t feel like love? Why don’t you feel like mine? Why does my heart feel abandoned when I have chosen to walk into your hands even after knowing my fate.
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.
Another chance to get our high from the powdered dust of dreams, from digging desperately, getting closer to the voice of the demons we buried just yesterday, breaking nails and curfews to save the skins we can’t live without.
Another chance at making a home, choosing colors for our ceilings, choosing the sides we will sleep on, choosing not to be the ones we have always been. Another chance, another precious child to be broken, another angel dress to be painted red waiting for our hands, for our tasteless kiss. Choosing everything that leads us to lives that couldn’t possibly have been ours, couldn’t have been so wrong.
I know we are the only ones who can give each other chances. Chances – that we are so fond of. But do we need to call it love?
Though we have tried and tried and have run out of things that can be fixed. Do we have to call this happiness just because we have been told we must?
Do we have to ruin every word, every feeling that we have not felt yet, just because we fear we may never feel them otherwise.