let’s break those darn mirrors. lets not peek through the hands of fear. let’s not see the monsters of sorrow. remember not where they walked and where they hide. close your eyes and wait.
for the end.
there is an end?
there always is.
there are ends that pierce through our our shoulder blades and the blinds of our ribs. it is actually beautiful to see how heart melts away too easily, stops too easily loses it way too easily.
there are ends that make broken mirrors magnificent, that smell like our mother, that find our mouths at the dead of the night and breathe in their last breath into our collapsing lungs.
it is sad to see how our helplessness asks sacrifice from others how we go back to sleep, as if nightmares, once they end, are only fiction. how we realize only after hours and years, wake up too late to notice the blue hands, that once seeked us in storms, decaying under the sunshine of the most beautiful day of our lives.
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 wanted to play this winter song on the brightest day of spring. Maybe at least in that way I will be able to mourn for something that I should have been happy to leave behind. But the snowflakes in me drift into the world and become butterflies of someone else’s heart. All my songs now belong to sun, they belong to scent of summer fruits, they fall as unpredicted rain on the windows I closed just in time. Anyway, I had to learn this sooner or later. How can I keep believing in my own feelings, on the things that were supposed to never change, never melt after losing half of my winters to the green winds of change. As I place all my “old dreams that don’t suit the new me” away from my reach, I wonder if the only way to save the dignity of my old sincerity is to lock it way from my own skeptical, mocking eyes?
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.
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.
i think this suits me most- to lose myself and yet look okay. god gave me a face that always looks okay even when i don’t want it to. (there have been only handful of days when i want to look as miserable i am.)
i wonder how it feels to say “do i look broken today yet? “i cried all night”. i have never cried at nights. i have never skipped a meal for my sorrow. i feed my heart too much fats and instant unhealthy happiness. i cut down my green trees and kill few birds, make a fresh trap that smiles through my gaping wound.
i live life the only way i can. look okay cause all parts of me are still working fine. god gave me a heart that doesn’t break the conventional way. i walk this world fearing this heart the most.
With my back to the my cold family name the metallic alphabets printing hard on my clothes, I stand with my feet half out of my pretty shoes – with my painted nails still hidden in the skin of another animal, my hands revolving the beautiful replica of Saturn around the plastic heart on my elaborate key chain- a stage of its own. I stand and wait for you to open your door on the floor above. I hear a faint click, a phone ring, footsteps running away from the world (why do I feel such sadness when I hear that?), a door left open (to everyone but me) I sit in the middle of my living room floor staring up, at the underside- the creeping mold of the stage where I played your lover, your nemesis. It is cruel and incomprehensible that we can still live, take calls, make jokes, eat, and still have the want to live. After hurting ourselves and the world for the sake of love, after all that, is this is it? When you find your room, your world without me which direction does your heart turn towards? Do forget from time to time that we are supposed to forget each other? When I find my loneliness becoming greater than me, when it starts spilling out of me on dinner table, when it makes me lose my mind, am I allowed to let go of you? Is this what this distance, this decision means? I hear your window open, I hear your excited voice (why do I feel color of anger filling me again?). I wonder if you have really found your new life or is this an act you have put for my benefit? Your kindness could only be in my head, as was your love. TV drowns your voice again and I thank all the accidents, all the things out of my control, everything that moves us away from each other. Otherwise, I never could.
I regret to tell you this that the blue sky that you died for is not longer blue. It is painting its face with remains of our greed, with the colors of our wars. But it is still sort of fair. It is trying hard not to choose sides, not to become the flags that unites only those whose favorite words are ‘future’, ‘safety’,’money’, ‘greatness’, while they clutch in their hands the fate of people they don’t identify with- ‘burden’ they call them. ‘Fear’ is another favorite word of theirs. They don’t speak much of it, but it is most useful or at least that’s what I have heard from the ones we are no longer allowed to call out or even mock. I have lost every bit of my passive aggressiveness. Life has become more bearable now that my skin is not broken for making too much noise, now that we have learnt to hold each other’s tongue so that we may not lose more friends than we already have. I regret to tell you that your dreams will remains dreams and you might be one of the last to know how dreams felt in your eyes, how tomorrow used to change by effort.
Before knowing the alphabets of your name or mine, I learnt to make you smile. I pluck another flower that makes me sneeze every time but the silly pathetic me smiles as you smile as I crawl to you losing balance, losing something similar to heart, as I dress you up in a mountain of petals I clenched too hard hoping you would never move away from me. How you dozed off as I made myself sick with my ambition. How you were still sleeping as your mother took you in arms brushing away every piece of my care. But it is better than the days I woke up with only the traces of my feelings, my cradle of flowers without you in it.