I come in the dark hours of my mood and switch on the lights of empty cubicles. 49 switches and yet nothing works on me.
I walk past the empty seats seats that belong to people I see everyday, I smile to everyday, who have never seen my smile in reality.
For few hours I can be happy again. I am free to be alone, to be miserable, to be able to curse myself but not being confused by the presence of these people, who are there for me but not only for me, but for everyone. And not always, but only when it suits them.
It is better that I am alone because I don’t know how to be thankful to them without being bitter, how to voice out the emptiness that flows into me every moment I spend with them and not feel hatred for the kind of person my words paint me to be, how to wait for them with eager heart when their kind words only remind me of monsters that force their way into my life.
It is better that I am alone It would have been better if I could wear these feelings with ease, without waiting for something to change.
“The sky is your canvas”, the book to all ailments said, “there is a joy in filling it up with life.” But as I finished my 157th sketch, as I finished my 300th one, as I finished the one with no count attached (the one I called “the limits that were stronger than me”), as I write over all that I had drawn, as the clouds dragged themselves painfully crawling to some better place, like everything else in my life the sky remained unchanged.
And when I lost my hands to fate, to slow corrosion, to the burden of creation, to the lady in white who couldn’t even lie that “it won’t hurt”, to the painful work of making up things that I want, things that would want me back, or at least won’t walk out, to the hunch that said something is seriously wrong with the kind of life I have.
I wished for the man in the sky to wake up and get to work, to make me some rain, to drop an ocean of crystal on this world, to paint a heaven on this cheap sky of this miserable man.
Because trying on some days, on most days now, feels like living against the wishes of the world. I can’t help but break a bit, cry a bit even when things are right, because they right only because of my efforts. Can you give me something that I don’t have to work hard for, something that was made for me, something that I can keep. A thing, a person, a sign that I can hold in my hand that tells me that you want me to be happy, that you want me to smile, that I am not abandoned after all.
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.
“you make me forget the unpleasantness of my life. so i will call this love. calling you my love is the only way that i can depend on you without feeling weak.”
“i dreamt of you sitting and singing on the blue couch of my childhood home. home that my parent’s respective loves burnt long ago. you remind me of hope now.”
“i hold your name more dearly than your hand, because your hands are so human that i can’t seem to love them the way i love you. i stop myself from telling you how my own humanness makes me hate myself. have you heard of the heart that changes it’s mind too often that abandons as easily as it takes up new obsession, that makes us miserable even when we should be happy, even when we have all we want. i have that. you have that. that’s what i hate. that’s what i fear. i stop myself from telling you how often i wonder that even this love for you might be a grand way of looking at the easy way out.”
i try to sleep, to forget the pain near my spine, to forget all the hours in front of me that i have no use of. i look at my palm from near and from as far as my hands can extend. i notice how my hands have changed. do i like it better now? i wonder if it possible to like anything about my body now. i remember once deciding not to at least hate this skin that has use for everyone but not to me. i remember saying “as long as it makes you happy” at the same time thinking “i don’t think you care for my happiness”. i stop myself from finding more things that make me confused or miserable. i unlock my phone. it’s 8 already- more and more notifications, …5GB extra..Alert:You have spent… …has added a new post…added a new story airplane mode, the notifications continue to pile up in my head- all the words that i will never get to see that i always expected even when i knew i shouldn’t, it has been long……sorry, for making you feel alone… today i saw something and was reminded of you. even though we are not together, it is not your fault… thank you for being there for me……it must have been tough… don’t hurt yourself i feel smaller knowing that even the words i want are only words of consolation, just confirmation that i am not the worst. i look at my hands again and wonder if my hatred for myself colors my skin. is that how everyone gets know that i don’t have the courage to ask for fair, for loyalty, for answers? is that how i look? someone who doesn’t have the voice to ask anything anymore.
They tell me time and again,
and shed tears.
Tell me how I sit alone, act lonely,
and make them feel the same.
How I forget that they need love.
How I make them miserbale by being myself.
How my every word is fake, every deed selfish.
I tell them again and again
that’s not me.
I am all that they complain about.
Even if every hour of mine is devoted
to not let them feel this.
The small crises
of my day-to-day life that
seem like disaster,
were nothing more than
my heart rebelling against my heart.
Of me fighting myself,
Of me looking at myself,
mocking at myself,
crying with myself.
Of accepting the solitude I had subjected myself to.
Of not knowing a way out of it.
Of thinking that if I could be miserable enough
someone might rescue me.
And finally accepting the life
I have shared with no one else