The monsters brought their shadows as they climbed into my bed and I gave them stories that promised to make them human again. I had talked them into the idea of change and love and the broken petal that became a flower overnight in the embrace of a care so fierce it that nothing in the world could stay broken once they knew its warmth; just liked they talked me into the ideas of strength and hiding and the stones that teach the skin of blood, bruise and eventually a strength so stubborn that it can never be separated from our bodies, our sorrows, and our will to fight. But many hours and a sleep and a love later we still found ourselves staring at the broken windows of hope, and the stone of disappointments melting in the morning light like snow. Each half of our heart now wouldn’t stop crying and begging for the other half to change. Every part of us was now contending with each other on the monopoly of truth, the right way to love, and the safe ways to die. Our surety of self was evaporating faster than ever. We were being broken from inside, scattered for good, while our skins now knew the same battles of keep up a form, keeping our reality hidden. But now we could at least now sit in a room and look each other in eye and smile, knowing we could never be separate from each other. Knowing there is no hell or heaven we would go to alone, no forgiveness only granted to one. There was no sin or or grace in this kingdom of cries, there is no beautiful escape from this knowledge of life.
The frame of winter breaks the snow drips, flows, and climbs like a relentless silver creeper, like a god finally on its way to end the reign and terror of heaven. Our eyes stare, amazed at the cold white spiders running across the face of the sky; the music and the metal dissolving the distant names, dissolving the knives we decorated our heart with. We could all feel an equal summer light embracing our backs silently.
The ripples spread out and march towards the far end of happiness. They die and are born again under the wish of my yet-to-break mind. I am carried to the place that was never made for my sake but yet seems to be made out of a piece of me, of my own heart.
The far end of everything has this one branch and this one bird. This one song that seems to be something sent by the heavens, something that can’t be given in my hands, something too precious, too beautiful to be bestowed to me. Maybe for a reason, that I will realize too late. But how do I stop before that.
I am always at the far end of wanting. The perfect distance to always be aware, to know what could be and yet know what isn’t. At this end also, inside me, inside this hollow haunting, is also a tree, a bird, a song. Even if made of dust it is my own drowning lighthouse- my only spring that tries to breathe, retain its humble peace before I reach my ruin. Before I learn why I must give up what I always knew I can’t have.
This moment of you wrapping your heart, your warm sound around my existence, around this body that will sooner or later yearn for you even when it lies buried in soil. This moment is all I want to be made up of. This heart of mine races and stops and tears itself down only for you and I would not have it any other way. This world where my shadow gets to rest with you is my only heaven, is my only home.
“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 read this on a torn sheet of paper that was lying, waiting (possibly for me?) in that empty hall, that on a normal day has never known empty. and being who i am, this again had to be an easy answer from a higher power. being who i was i believed that the confusion in my mind rocked every throne in heaven. so again i assumed as i said i never would, that these must be the words that could solve me. never mind the context, never mind the book or it’s title. there is so much missing and this paper still remains it might mean something, it must mean something, everything had to mean something for me to somehow go on. it said “your desire would burn away, the moment you let it have your words” so i uttered your name with the place you have in my heart. i mustered up enough courage to speak of the place i wanted in you. it sounded dubious and shallow. it sounded so much like me that i thanked myself for not saying it to you. i made a clean tear through that piece of paper for being too right and being too wrong and walked away wanting now to become a better vessel, the person on whose lips these words would really sound the way they felt i walked away waiting for my mind and your heart to become good enough for those feelings.
we get onto the car that we wish was stolen i look at her (not my lover, yet), at him (my friend – we share the same passion of finding new things to be disappointed about), i look at the the small bags we have packed and realize that this is far too less to start a life i count them as i get in i realize one of us probably has nothing worth carrying around in life.
she keeps telling me that unlike us she has to take care of things so she is bound to be late she says this while she texts the food preferences of her beloved pet to someone who owes her one (i feel something similar to jealousy seeing this).
and he keeps changing the radio station as if he knows what he is looking for, as if he has grown up on radio songs and commercials, but he hasn’t. he says that is what makes it more romantic, the unknown that was always in front of you to finally acknowledge something that shouldn’t have been invisible from the start.
i just look at them, making mental notes, calculating the chances that we might come to our senses (that would be pretty sad, if that happens). i keep looking back as if i was being abducted, dragged out of heaven against my wishes. but it is no heaven (not anymore).
so i sleep in the backseat hiding my tears under the blanket of darkness- since i do not want to recall every thing that made this place and my body unholy, unbearable; since i don’t want ask these two about what they are running away from. i wonder if i will ever know a home that won’t drive me away.
my heaven would have flowers in blue, a storm of sunshine, a road that runs like the soft song that you once made me hear, a sparrow that never stays still.
obviously i do not know what it would be like to live in such a heaven. whether i would really be at peace there. but through the walls of stone that i could never scale it looked so beautiful- the world that you lived in.
but i cannot break what i am nor can i chase away the shadows that i depend on it is too late for that. so before i close my eyes for the last time let me hold you close. become my last memory, become my heaven.
Though the sky is filled with lights the nights on this land are lonely as ever. Again I am in love with a part of sky, with things that we call heavenly only because they are out of our reach, only because they are not ours to keep, because every god seems to love them more.
I end up on websites or with books that say “this is how the universe looks” “this how the stars are born” “this is the most beautiful cloud you will ever know” “this is something your tearful eyes can never see”. That for every drop of light there are an expanse of emptiness which we cannot imagine. That we are small and we are insignificant.
Funny how the love for things that I thought couldn’t possibly hurt me also takes me down the same path. The path that I walked once holding the hands of someone made of flesh plastered with signs of caution and warnings.
But it is different now. I guess the difference lies in who tells this news to me. If I am nothing, if this hurt that I feel because of you is of minor importance, if I have a life that will be easily forgotten, then I do not have to kill myself only to be remembered well. And maybe, just maybe I can forgive you for being human and myself for not being humane enough.
I always thought that I could be happy, really happy, forever happy, if only I could make myself love happiness.
Though I approached this strange kid, though I pretended to be good and as holy as humans can be, I had nothing to say this ever smiling child. All the standard stories I had prepared for this heavy chore of presenting myself to this world, were not for her ears.
I could never make myself fill her head with such darkness. Why should she know of the categories of suffering and where I fit, about the worth that every person has to earn. This kid looked at rainbow and reflections with marvel, prayed before every meal, believed in every story told. There was nothing I could say to her. I could not make her see me, befriend me, understand me without changing her into me.
Only my love for this happiness stands in my way of the heaven I have dreamt in futile.