My tiny life holding its tiny fist stood at the gates of a thatched school. The broken lies and lesson flew out of windows with their sharp painful wings. And though my heart despised such birds, hated the thought of growing in the presence of their mocking chirps, I still walked. I walked because the winds were strong, and my eyes were pricked with the image of the ones with warm leaving in hurry, because i too wanted to be at a place where “i need to be” even if it was filled with cruel noise, even if my skin was shrinking in fear, and maybe precisely because I was going to lose myself some part of me wanted to know who would care. I walked towards walls, windows, and wells closed (for now). I looked in and saw faces and their lips that sculpted words without breaking. I looked at the empty place waiting for me. I could already see – my bending spine and twisted tongue. I could feel my heart already learning not to care anymore.
the woman with red lips , with her body flattened on the thickest shiniest paper stands dead, stands tall, as big as the most reflective bone, the most visible and most sought assembly of bricks, grown on the most affluent dreams. she wobbles like a rootless tooth when the wind blows. inside the low blood walls, across the road that have never been stepped on, she stands, she towers and never dares to look down on anyone but herself. she smiles the smile that would have been a sunrise-finally-felt if only it was really meant. if only it was all true it wouldn’t have been heart breaking to be looked at.
She let go of me and took a step back, as I ran around all the space that would be me, all the life that would be ours.
From far away – the closest far away, she looked at my childish smile. She smiled a bit more, and I felt that, the lovely curves of her lips on my heart. Her smile always miraculously makes me breathe more easily.
In this room, in this warmest freedom that she has weaved from the most colorful threads of her spirit, here, I see her for all she tries to be, for all she is thereby. Here, I want to be seen by her. Here, I want to be something more than my wants, something more meaningful than just free.
I move back into her embrace and ask her to take anything, anything beautiful she finds in me, to keep all my goodness, however few, in her care. I wanted her to grace a part of me with her identity, I wanted my existence to be inseparable from hers. But her will, her love turned out to be greater than mine. Even when I left a part of me in hers, she refused to call it hers, the world punished me, for my greed, by calling her mine.
I tried being cool about it. I tried not to call it a heartbreak. I tried forgiving. I tried thinking ‘my life is not over’. I even invented some feelings that can be talked about. I entertained the stupid idea – “it’s all for the best”. I fed it all I owned, and soon I didn’t have much left to keep that play going. I think there are still hundred things more that I have not yet tried. Maybe one of them would work.
Or maybe till I reach the end of this list, I would probably forget who I was or who you were, and maybe you would just melt into my identity – claiming 2% of my faults, causing 25% of my breakdowns, the major reason for my suspiciousness, the only reason I can’t seem to be myself. Just like how I pick up all odd habits and mannerism from people I don’t even recall, will you end up becoming things that I do without reason, becoming my convenient excuse for turning my back on anything that can become more important that me in my own life.
I crawled to the window in my dress torn by the claws and cries of people who live in my nightmares. They like clean living rooms, dark courtyards, and cars with slashed tires sitting in their garage. They have “broken hearts” written down in forms as their identity and broken chandeliers swept under their bed. They crouch down and look at me as the broken lights shine red, as I see myself bleed beautiful rivers, as my silent scream become winds, become ripples, becomes the face that will forever make me cry. They smile and ask me “What do you wish? How do you want to be saved?” while someone else burns the bed that I am crushed under and asks me “Is this the what the warmth felt like in your mind?” They drag me out into a forest, where under the brightest tree of hope, they stuff darkness into my throat, into my mind and ask me “Do you still feel empty?” They are unreal and of unsound mind. They tell me living in me makes them so. They wave goodbye to me with a smile, offering me a sweet candy for my silence and understanding It is raining when I open my eyes. I breathe in the world where bleeding and burning is irreversible, where it would lead to an end of some kind. I crawl to the window in my torn dress and my exhausted skin and find myself staring at people who used live in my nightmares, people who look more real that the living me. People who now own more than just my dreams.
I find myself amidst the flowers that continue to bloom even without her. I find myself smiling, blooming, even dreaming, . trying to hold a bit more life in my hands in spite of the holes that are now three-fourth of my identity, that won’t let me keep anything. As I continue to pass through everything everything I run towards I think maybe this is the only correct for me to live, this is probably the only fate I could accept anyway.
this person with dreams and purpose, this person with heartful of love and tears as a proof of its painful blooming, this person with a lot say and a lot to see with an agreeable “to-do” and hidden “what-if-I-never” list, this person good enough to be included in your plans, in your friendly banter, in your group chats, in your betrayals, in your short-lived love, in your museums of wax, in your corrupting memory, in your unreliable heart
this person – this image, is merely an excuse I give to world, an excuse I give to myself. So that I can continue to exist even when I don’t know why I must.
The river is finally running dry. I heard someone rejoicing to hear this. What is a river without it’s water? I am told it is money, it is development, it is more money.
Another colony, dozens of businesses springs up. There is nothing to be sad anymore. I walk on the roads trying to trace the skeleton of what is lost.
Now, I know the names of few more rivers that are nowhere to be seen on maps.
The numbers of such ghost keep increasing.
There is a language that no one cares for. There is a city that forces everyone to leave. There are words that don’t sound fancy anymore. There is an accent that needs to be exorcised from tongues- the identity of what we are is a secret, something we can be killed for.
But it is the season, the world where rivers dry out beautifully, where aches turn into anger, into revenge, into art, into denials, into search for something new. But rarely does it turns into tears.
How is it we have so much to lose, so much that is already lost and yet have so little to grieve about.
And every morning I hear wind, I hear birds, I hear children play around in me. I am filling myself with everything that reminds me of what I really am. I let my heart do what it wants, my heart wants no part in this remaking of me. It starts it’s days praying for your return and goes to sleep, thankful that you won’t.