Sometimes when I forget to live, to see ahead, I find myself back again in the house of wood beside my child made of sand. He looks like me most of the days, sometimes she looks like him. They are often speaking like chorus of brokenness.
Some days they tell me that they are not mine, that they are not children, that I am not me. I ask them then why do I feel the way I do? why do I hurt the way I hurt? And hearing this they become the sand that I can only cry upon. They don’t come alive until another time.
But until that, I must be me, and see things not being themselves. The sand that was a life a second ago, it melts, it grows wings and opens its eyes and burns as sun.
Sometimes it opens it eyes and starts crying in my arms. It tears my skin, it makes me smile all my dying parts wake up but in a world where no such beautiful haunting exists where I have no reasons to cry only tears that never stop.
Once I was told by my own shattering image that I would learn to laugh at this moment.
It was not a pleasant sentence to hear.
It reminded me of all the sentences that are manufactured in the factories of peace. you will forget this bruise. you will forget those words. you will forget this love. you will forget this face. forgetting is what you really want. far away from every “here” is the place you want to be.
It reminded me of all the meaningless words that were born everyday in the mouths of strangers – words that awkwardly held me not knowing who I am or why I must be consoled but convinced something in me should be put to sleep before it learnt to cry in the audible ranges of pain.
There are too many words in this place. Too little heart. There are too many people who look like they have known pains that I might never have. But they are the same ones who want to bury things that are only broken. So I am going to run towards every “here” out there, towards that lesser life filled with loss. A life where things that are lost are allowed to matter.
Now that I have grown in height and I cannot forget my name even if I want to, no one comes looking for me when I go missing.
When I go missing, when I finally succeed in getting lost I buy a new plant, walk through strange streets, come back home with with my worn out heels and new pictures on phone, takeouts from restaurants whose name feels weird on my lips, knowing more roads that can take me home.
I sit defeated and happy as I realize getting lost means nothing if I can breathe just fine in this world, if everything here can be my home.
But still there is sadness in me for losing everything that only that small world could hold.
From wherever it may be, if I keep walking straight and try not to think of the destination, eventually I feel the pavement turn to dust. Slowly, stones dating to the oldest dates in the recorded history of my life start appearing one by one.
They sprout new mouths, they learn new words, they grow into roads, into pillars, into gateways, and into the walls of the places where I am no longer welcome. The fabric of present, my strange choice of words, my skin that doesn’t belong to this time all such things make me an alien, make me a pitiful stranger in a place I know more than myself.
My laughter lives in those places, with people who can’t find their way to me, just like I can’t find my way to them. I hold onto the walls when my tears start killing me, I tell myself, it will be fine, if I just keep walking. I tell myself, I will eventually remember my way out of this moment, as I always have.
But now I can’t. I don’t want to. Maybe I am not meant to. Maybe the answer lies in never forgetting, maybe that’s the love I am meant to have. Maybe waiting is the answer that will suit my weak heart, since pretending can only get me this far.
I sit on the benches of deserted parks with with my bloodless heart, and I imagine melting here in this imaginary sun. I feel happiness might have been something like that, but I can’t remember it, even though it was once mine.
For sunsets you missed are not even there in the hearts of those who saw it everyday.
They walked past it, shut their windows tight, and sat in their darkest caves trying to run away from what you want so deeply.”
I almost said to him that even though it hurts, it is a hurt I would like to have- to yearn for the things that never happened.
That unlike him I yearned for things that I walked over and killed. Things that I can still see and hear in my dreams, telling me, showing me all the marks of my hatred on their skin, on their hearts. I cry for them, look for them, seek forgiveness from them when I am awake. I dread them when they find me in sleep.
I almost confessed to him that being the maker of caves, a lover of sunsets, being the one who filled half the world and half the hearts with a blindness even I can’t cure, maybe I shouldn’t be his savior, maybe I shouldn’t be relied upon for answers.
The glass window creaks under the weight of my head. I wonder if I should sleep. Not that it is in my hands. I wish it was . But then I am afraid of wishing for anything that I might not be able to bear-
like her face alive in my dreams,
like seeing myself with a smile that I can never wear again,
like wanting to smile again even when I do not want to want such things.
Even when I stay awake, stay alert to the turning and tossing of my heart even when I stay glued to the place I had in her heart, I feel that time is dragging me away from everything that is painfully comfortable and familiar and lost.
I feel the world trying to rush back into me. I feel I might lose her too soon, too easily. I fear there is only so much that my heart can take. I fear that I will find the peace that I do not want to feel at the other end of this suffering.
i will read you another story so that you may know that faults and lacks of humans are common and in abundance, how ordinary are expectations-not-met. i will read till my eyes close till you can see all there is to see, till you see everyone around you who are disappearing into silence, till you see all the kind words you could have said to them, till you see that these words, that make you cringe, how important they are how easy they are to say, how difficult to mean till you learn to mean these words that save lives, till you learn to listen to others, till you grow the eyes that can see the world before it is lost.
though there is another story for another day about how to save yourself from all that you have saved.
I drowned the flowers one by one. The poison of beauty now runs through the rivers on this land, they fill his backyard in every season of rain. A child with his smile drowns another boat of dreams, the flood is a field of paper, the flood is all that is left of me. She stares into me, waiting for a reflection to surface. She walks into me to see where I end.
She tells me about the boy she can’t love and the boy she can’t blame as I dissolve and submerge the red gates of her house, the garden of forgiveness, her school shoes, all roads to her friend who doesn’t smile back anymore, the spoons that remind her of hunger for farthest worlds and people.
She asks me how deep will be this pain of losing herself, how long she would have to smile through this hate. I flow into her heart, wondering, if there I could turn back to the flower I was, if the end of my hate could be the end of her pain. If I could be her answer of hope.
I wanted to tell him thatI went back to the fountain the one made of moon marble in the neighborhood made of coal, andI fished for his wishes, the forgotten cold coins,
that once I believedI could find him in the things he left behind and I was wrong. I could only see the lingering complains and the eventual hate in the fact that he left.
But the romantic in me just couldn’t stop till I did the impossible, The romantic in me has no eyes, no ears only a tongue to ask for more. The work of running, begging, searching for a lost coin was left to me.
So I picked a random coin and lied thatit was his, just likeI picked him in this world of millions and I told myself he is mine.
I wanted to to tell him that even I was tired of my“shows of love” which played one lie after another till someone broke. But I guess he knows already.
Her floor had always been the color of the season I remember this, only when I step into the mess of her life. The spring issues lay scattered like the flowers The pink, red, yellows, and greens, women who only know youth, women who only grow younger the kind of woman she wanted to be (what a small impossible dream) and she almost is. And now that she can never change would she be happy? When/if she comes across her own lifeless eyes in the missing posters would she be glad to be one of the “sad popular”? I shatter the home of her missing goldfish in my haste efforts to pick them up and put them out of sight- the bundles of glossy paper that my eyes can’t handle. I try to put them away, wanting to throw them away now that she wouldn’t mind, now that she won’t yell at me or anyone for taking away too much of her. I want to try it. i want to try, so she has no option but to stop me. “let’s leave her in peace” tells me my moral compass and my grief. “i don’t want to show her the kind of respect that only dead deserve” shouts back my anger and my love. I drop the heaviest bag in this world on her rain soaked bed. Her last dress, her last chocolate wrapper, her last bus ticket, her last mistake, her last breath everything spilling out, everything ruining the spring that I dreamed for her along with her.