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?
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.
Things I now remember are mostly absurdly simple and painful. Like the last time we met like this, you had a white suitcase that seemed like your new pet. It looked at peace with the snow that was getting on your nerves. When you smiled all I could think was now you cannot bear the weight of your old green bag pack, now you cannot bear the winters I am part of. All I could think was that you are growing old somewhere far without me. I didn’t know that the next thing I would have to do, after facing such sad realization, would be to smile for my sake more than your.
Things I now recognize are are only those that I don’t know how to fix anymore. Like today as I helped you out of your heavy white coat, as I made the coffee of your liking I kept staring at your small form and your frightening transparency. I looked at the scribbles of black marker at the corner of suitcase. I wondered where were you when you drew that. At what point of your journey you could no longer pretend this was a life of your choosing? Is your loneliness so overwhelming that you are not afraid of buying and ruining whites? Is your loneliness of my making? Is that why you wear it so dearly?
Another day flashes across my sky. Another moon rushes past my life. There are clouds that I have learned to walk on. There are days when I forget how afraid I am of this world. This is what my miracle looks like.
There are songs that never meant anything till you sang them for me. As I play hide and seek with your smile, I am forgetting the reasons to hate myself. I am forgetting things that I never allowed myself to forget. This is what my miracle looks like.
I dream of a one room castle. I find the idea of falling in love with this world something worth looking forward to, something worth a try. I find the courage to want the impossible. I find it easy to put my heart outside my body, in this world. Nothing breaks, nothing withers. Finally, my heart grows old with me. This is the miracle that walked into my life holding your hands.
those who spent their lives wrecking their hands to mould me into something better, tried fruitlessly to break me without pain, to break me and make me into something that would be accepted by this world. they showered me with love so i won’t know, won’t remember how much it pained me or how much it hurt them to have gifted me this painful self-critical view of myself and this world.
while they are growing old, weak and distant my love for them looks like a failed seed that never grew nor flowered. the years that i spent with them has made me ungrateful. i have become the fish that never thanked the water that kept it alive, thinking that is what water is meant to do.
with time as a fail to become what i thought i am, as i realize that doing or even knowing the right thing to do becomes more impossible as you get to know this world, i begin to understand the enormous love they must have had for me to hold my hand and walk with me in a world that they had never seen only for my sake, knowing that their courage and their tears are destined to be forgotten (or worse- questioned).
and my love? my love, it grows in opposite direction of sun, my love for them grows into the soil my heart in a world where they won’t see and won’t know. i will remain cruel and indifferent even in my own eyes. so i hide my muddled feelings and walk around those who have made me what i am whatever that may be.
hello? can you help me? can you tell me which way to go, which part of me to burn to reach the dumping ground where lay all the skins that humans have ever shed?
i have been living in my dreams for quite some time, where i am the old-me surrounded by my old-family, old-friends, old-strangers.
dreams that i can no longer have, now that i have been led back to reality, now that i am almost sane. i realize i am missing the life that never was. medicated consciousness is not enough to make me forget all that i should not remember.
i have heard that here i would find the lifeless skin of mine- the ‘me’ who never knew what lacking is. want to join me? never mind. i was not looking for company anyway. thank you for not helping, for telling me to grow up. thank you for making reality more disturbing than it already is for me.
my sad winter sunshine i am here for you. we can stay sad for however long you want. don’t worry, i don’t remember the happy you. i am not hanging around to see your other face. i have no affection for what you are trying to become again.
i loved rain once. now snowfall is my new thing, you are my new thing- my old love in a new skin. the sky is endless, the time infinite we have long way to go before we become anything permanent.
beauty may be only skin deep but lack of it goes deeper than that. so deep that you end up learning to want things that you wouldn’t otherwise even think about. i wish i could remember every face that was surprised to know that i am okay with looking older than i am, surprised that i do not want to exorcise fats especially when i have got so much of it. every morning i wake up they hover over me like faceless shadows with black markers, drawing over my body showing me all that is wrong, giving me tips so that i can become easy to look at, hiding their superficiality under the wraps of concern, whispering how thick-skinned i am when i don’t listen and wondering what is wrong with the ones who love me. it made me wonder that maybe going under the knife wouldn’t be as bad as being smeared black by markers. that maybe i am supposed to love myself only after the world approves of the ‘me’ that i want to love. i would have understood if they cared, if they actually meant good, but they don’t because they know nothing more than my name and they say my name only with heart-breaking adjectives and assumptions. i want to say they are wrong, but i have suffered their gaze for so long that sometimes i end up sharing their hatred of me, of what they see. there are days that i obsess over a passing comment. there are days i beat up myself for being like this. i starve and fail, i try to get over their words and fail, i try to hate myself and fail. i want to say it doesn’t matter but it does because i am tiring myself out by trying to see something good in me, by apologizing to myself, by trying to save my heart while they burn my body in the woods.