In the shade of a fruitless spring-less tree as I tried to recall and write down all the phone numbers I once knew by heart, I looked at the sky and laughed for thinking too highly of myself and thinking too little about my heart. That is the last thing I remember before I was possessed.
Oddly I always remember this point of contrast marked by the last tear I actually cried. Whatever now had made home in me convinced me that I could be complete even if I stay as who I am, that I could stand in this world witnessing beauty, love, companionship, faith, life and be happy even if it could do nothing for me, even if they were not mine.
Someone, who couldn’t possibly have been me, lived my life in my place from that moment, and I never had to wonder again if I am allowed to live like this. I never picked up another paper I threw in the trash. I now never tried to play the role of the one with bigger heart. I was finally free of hope, of love, of being myself. Now it was the work of whoever wanted this body, whoever wanted my life.
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.
I have spent 10 years of my life decorating my wooden coffin, giving food, giving faces, and adding height to my imaginary friends and painting forgiving smiles on my imaginary gods.
I won’t mind if someone out there decides to call me “coward” or “delusional” or “hopeless” or “sorta weird” I won’t mind if this qualifies to be called “running away from reality and life”.
Even if I ignore the words like these, even when I have found a way to survive alone I am still left with these corrosive, acidic feelings. Feelings don’t help – when all they do is speak, wail louder each day.
They remind me again and again that even a beautiful death is a death, that loneliness is still loneliness, that in spite of the ribbons and flowers and posters the smile on my face is still not as bright as the one love used to give me, even if I have now less reasons to cry.
It is not easy – this peace, this staying away from the want to be seen, to be loved, this wanting to cry over something again. It is not easy – to keep myself awake and alive when feeding myself, seeing the light only makes my fears stronger.
I held onto my heart that wouldn’t stop running towards the possibility of love, towards you who smiled at me and yet never looked back. I held onto my heart, clawed at it, in fact. All because this role of wanting is an ocean of false memories and false hopes. This feeling of losing myself to something like love, someone like you, to everything out of my reach was wearing me down to a version of me I didn’t like. Wanting you has made me cautious, has made me aware of why I can’t be the one for you, why I can never be the one being loved. Wanting you makes me feel like I can never be happy again.
i cried again today – a silent sob hidden behind the highest volume of television. yesterday i found my grief for a second in the fading of another song. it lasted for a second- my glace, my hopeless glance at your retreating figure and my fruitless love left in its wake. a shallow love clenching my heart.
There is another in your heart. In your mind there is always a new another- someone you could have had. “Anything is better than this”, as you so often say. I wonder if the hell of your imagination has my face. For long my hell has been – you, keeping your options open. My hell has been – wondering if it is all in my head. To smile and love you better, every time you treat me bad. To measure the worth of love in tears, only my tears. My hell has been going towards you. You, who has always been going away.
I wonder if in every love
what I really seek is just amnesia,
a means to cut off myself from myself.
So I would know more of world
than just me.
But it is all hopeless
because even in my want to forget
I carry my vanity along.
I am only drawn to loves
that can separate me from what I have done
and what I want to be,
that can remind me of (or even become)
a moment in my life
where I was something precious
to someone else
and I was all they can see.
All my sketches of you
are living in a hopeless state of
growing hunger, growing questions.
I hear them talking to each other,
asking your whereabouts.
I have grown to become
a mother of many children
abandoned by her man.
Children who are forced to share a life with me
while struggling to keep a distance from my breaking heart.
Asking each other questions that they want to ask me.
I wish they would just ask me
“where is he?” “did he forget his way to us?”
“did he forget you? us?”
A saner me could have told them
“he probably forgot the person he was
people tend to do that life
but he cannot forget himself without erasing us
maybe we were no better that the life
that he had forgotten before us
or maybe it became worse with us
whatever he was suffering from.”
But the saner me
is also fading into the sea of past.
I fear for these innocent memories
that do not get to choose,
that do not have any say,
staring in silence at me
hoping I continue to love them
knowing that I probably won’t.
I am stuck somewhere between
the hopeless continuation
and the frightening end.
The spiraling down tower of
love, the staggering me-
filled to brim with saved up hopes
spilling, losing one calming delusion at a time-
wasted on the people, wasted on reality
that never wants to change,
never wants to grow.
The soft sky falling on this world
talking everything with itself,