Some kinds of love are made of flesh, that can be killed eventually however long it must take. Forever does not exist for everyone. But all that exists only in the kingdom of decay, all that refuses to leave this flesh as the knife of time cuts deeper and deeper, those stubborn ones who only tend to the roots of hopeless dreams it was probably them, who thought up this scheme of wanting a thing like this. This fragile cloud of “forever” that will rain any day and yet will rise from our tears and fill our skies again. I am sad to say I am too weak to stray away from those skies. I am yet to learn how to sever the wants of my gods from my flesh.
The skin of the prophets and lovers hangs with the fresh laundry. The dices and glasses lie forgotten in the broken and mutated stomachs of our pet fishes. A pot of porridge sits on the blue counter. The potatoes, the rice, the marbled peas grow soil, grow eyes, grow tongue, grow memories that never were. The imitations of porcelain crack under the weight of life. It never used to be like that.
Life used to be small and delicate and beautifully framed within the carefully drawn floral boundaries of plates, within the pools of small spoons. Life is no longer like that. Now the book of tales burn with the missing ladles and fake money of games no one knows how to play. Every piece of wood, every piece of our soul, anything that burns, only burns only what we love. Only what we love gets to die here.
Shouldn’t that put me at ease? That something gets to escape this world. But all that dying, the small pieces scraped off again and again. Isn’t that how we got to this- this place where even pain is dull, where even the hopelessness doesn’t come with a heartbreak.
only the lips of hope, the planets that break in sunlight, the dreams that never forget that they are made with love but also with vapors that can only dissipate and lose form eventually, slowly….taking my form with them into the void of love. only this would do. only this i can welcome. only this i can hold. only the lips of hope that won’t utter my name, the hands that won’t let me go, this violent landscape with the only green branch in this world. only those i know to be real. only that i know to be love.
Home is here. Come touch this wall, touch this heart that wants to stand with you here, in every withering garden, in middle of every nowhere.
The blossom of stories that creeps up your spine it wants a part of that. It wants the sweetness of hope. It wants the death of normal. It wants end of every story that has nothing to do with you.
Come here into these metal arms, into this tent made of spider web of hopeless love. Face this smile that wants to break for you. Come, this could be home, this could be the place your can tears free anyway there is only breaking here. There is only dull colors of heaven, there is only me- who has never been anything magnificent but still wants to be one with you fate whatever that means.
Across this glass, across the tired melting clouds of mist, on the other side there are trees and homes and forests that are just like places on this side that I rest.
The places where I am not look as sad as all the places I have been. Everywhere, on every road there is always a person who knows a way to break my heart, and I always end up thanking them for it.
There are rooms where I put up lights and posters and curtains and lovers and music, those are the rooms I want to die in- with some beauty, with some consolation of meaning .
But always I find the reason for my end outside these walls. Those reasons live under the brightest light on the darkest road. And because I was told that the light that I don’t know of is the one that saves all, even the hopeless ones like me. So my legs forget how to stop, my hands forget how to let go, and my blood glitters for a moment under the light of lost hopes before it turns black, before it invites in the cold that I always thought belonged to the inanimate world.
I think of the room I won’t reach, and the songs and the faces and this world that I will not be given a piece of, to keep.
As the sky fills me up, pats me down, and tucks me in the snow across the white, I feel someone stir from sleep. The wail that my throat cannot make, finds a home in that other world, in the other me that unlike me knows how to cry and how to be loved for it.
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.