i would wake up and find myself again in another room with another stranger (obviously broken) and i would try to remember the night before, the season before, the feelings before i ended up here. i fail to recall the pain that drew me here, i fail to remove this person from the mess of all the words that has been said to me before. before is now a continuum. and “you”, “me”, and “us” and “we” are just terms that point nowhere, to nothing but they carry too many people inside, the seams of these words are always coming apart, there is too much weight to these light words, they leave our shoulders and heart broken. how lovely it would be to be singular again. how simple everything could be. but everything tends to flow, tends to merge, tends to find roots every time it taste defeat, it finds ground. it is still somehow good. though good is maybe a relative term. but then everything is relative, even us. me and you are different only when we are placed far apart in time and space. as i drown diaries and memories in the waters of the forests that you used to visit, i find myself walking as you, sharing your skin of fear, speaking the broken language of your dreams. as you, i end up drowning a lot more, losing a lot many things than i had planned to. it doesn’t hurt, honestly, when that happens. a lot of things should hurt but they don’t. and i feel that is my tragedy. i used to feel every loss even of others and i loved it. and now because i feel nothing i have taken up jobs on the excavation sites of pain of strangers that are dying from numbness. my presence seems to help, at least diverts attention. the “too much” about me helps everyone but me. i have an excess of blood, an excess of heart however implausible that might seem. but it is so. i have learnt that after numerous burnings and denial. all that breathes, all that seems to be made of magic and speaks in voice of thunder, anything that we don’t understand we have burned them enough. we are burning too much of ourselves. but that is not my problem. at least not my only problem. i have never had a definable problem. but we can talk as if they are, as if everyone can be broken down into components of their loss and yearnings and lacks, their playlist and bookshelves and friend list, the people we hate and love and can’t stop to obsess about- the people we are dying to forget and living in remembrance of. we sound so noble tonight when we talk like this . as if we are above the shallow plains of life. i will forget your name though, and you will also forget or at least would want to forget a lot about me that is a totally different type of shallow, isn’t it. we have shared so much and we will hate ourselves for it.
a broken end with a light (a lighter duller than me) touches me. someone says the magic words, the loathsome words that make me the old alice. i am made to leave the seat, the home, the dream, the rights that are too big for me. they leave me a tiny suitcases filled with fancy dresses made of used socks and handkerchiefs. they are cute, they are kind, they have read their fairy tales right. i have never read the right books, so i find myself unable to thank them or kiss their hands. thumblina says my new belongings in glitter i do not know what this name means or the fate that the owner of this name is meant to find but i have heard it is better than being an alice. (i liked being alice more i liked a story written for my sake.) as i walk into the new forest, towards hopefully my last story or at least a story i can make my own for once, i can’t help but think of all the laughing men, now laughing giants fixing my home to their liking. i can’t help but be a bit bitter looking at my hands that can only build for people like them.
The night doesn’t quite reach my land. There are columns and mountains of light that my people have given themselves to.
I never roll down my windows. There is a scent of death in the air. I don’t want to remember how burning is painful.
In my mind I run towards the memories of my perspective correction classes. I pick out a card, a line that works the most “burning is luminous”.
Yes, burning is lumious. Burning is magic, burning is beautiful. It is beautiful as long as I don’t hear the cries of one being burnt. It is magic as long as I don’t ask for confirmation of my worst fears being true from the others who never open their windows.
There is red in the news no one talks about, there is red in the names that disappear over night, there is red splattered inside the world in my head but the world is suspiciously clean even when all I smell is death.
When I close my eyes, it is never dark. Something burns before me, I am always aware of it. I wonder if I would ever know sleep again.
i read this on a torn sheet of paper that was lying, waiting (possibly for me?) in that empty hall, that on a normal day has never known empty. and being who i am, this again had to be an easy answer from a higher power. being who i was i believed that the confusion in my mind rocked every throne in heaven. so again i assumed as i said i never would, that these must be the words that could solve me. never mind the context, never mind the book or it’s title. there is so much missing and this paper still remains it might mean something, it must mean something, everything had to mean something for me to somehow go on. it said “your desire would burn away, the moment you let it have your words” so i uttered your name with the place you have in my heart. i mustered up enough courage to speak of the place i wanted in you. it sounded dubious and shallow. it sounded so much like me that i thanked myself for not saying it to you. i made a clean tear through that piece of paper for being too right and being too wrong and walked away wanting now to become a better vessel, the person on whose lips these words would really sound the way they felt i walked away waiting for my mind and your heart to become good enough for those feelings.
After a long time, I feel like walking towards the calm unknown. The wildness in me that I had thrown away, is waiting for me. They were always waiting to tell me all the gossips of stars and fishes, how lost and alone they both felt to know that blue they had in common were totally different worlds.
The clothes that made me look somewhat beautiful I fold them with care, leave it somewhere you won’t miss. Their newness would be the new metaphor for sadness, sadness – yours and mine.
There must be a magic to undo this curse of our feelings. There must be an answer, a life that doesn’t necessarily need us to be together. I will ask the cruel fairies that live in dying breaths to make you forget me at sunrise, to make me feel something for you again, as my life with you ends.