There is mercy in shadows, there is healing in light, and in the darkness? There is always something in darkness but we never know what. Only there I can invent, imagine and pretend. Pretend that this is my heart, these are my people, these noises that scare me are of ghosts, here I can see their teary eyes Pretend that the one coming towards me is a kind monster, that the bleeding has stopped that outside is spring, is a life better and wider than this Outside is always spring till I don’t open the windows, till I don’t look out. What a sad fragile relief this darkness is. A never-ending cycle of hope and pain.
My tiny life holding its tiny fist stood at the gates of a thatched school. The broken lies and lesson flew out of windows with their sharp painful wings. And though my heart despised such birds, hated the thought of growing in the presence of their mocking chirps, I still walked. I walked because the winds were strong, and my eyes were pricked with the image of the ones with warm leaving in hurry, because i too wanted to be at a place where “i need to be” even if it was filled with cruel noise, even if my skin was shrinking in fear, and maybe precisely because I was going to lose myself some part of me wanted to know who would care. I walked towards walls, windows, and wells closed (for now). I looked in and saw faces and their lips that sculpted words without breaking. I looked at the empty place waiting for me. I could already see – my bending spine and twisted tongue. I could feel my heart already learning not to care anymore.
The silence was deafening because there were people in it. There was a tiny space made of granite, a smallness born out of the spacious halls now crowded with people. the air stale with staring. The long moments of confused and alienating gazes. The wait. And for what? Everyone knew they must speak, only then a god will be formed, only then we’ll have a reason to meet again. But they were afraid of everything. which was not really a problem. They also felt among many other things that only they felt and knew fear, that fear kept only them as a pet to be played with. They felt good and miserable when they though that. They also felt special. And because we were all special and doomed and carried poetry in us to be looked at, to be listened to we all stood there staring. We stood shoulder to shoulder, sorrow to sorrow trying prove to others that we knew life, and that once, once we really did live. But all we were seeing and feeling under our feet, in the hollow of our hands was that place, the house on the slippery slope, the home we could never leave. We were all there alone. Trying to avoid the weight of another person who might just end it all for us by saying something stupid as “you are a bit too much for me” and “this generation is not capable of love” and “poverty is a state of mind” Or something as true as “this was a bad idea”, “you do know that we will never meet again, don’t you? at least we are all praying for that.”
There is an empty blue seat on the bus. You can always find them – the empty seats, they swim in abundance in front of your eyes when you have nowhere to go, no hurry, no person to reach. But to find them as you rush in and push past the people you don’t know holding the warmest hand in this world is a miracle I guess.
But today is not the day for a miracle. At least no old miracles are to arrive. The buses they rush past as if they have never known me, to be fair I don’t remember the buses like I remember people; to be fair roads are meant for the rush. But the cars don’t mean you, the slow bicycles don’t mean you; the buses that keep arriving, the last seat always empty- to be honest, even they don’t mean you. You are just dragged as an additional part as an extension to a feeling that once made me whole.
You are added as an afterthought. I only look for you in this world when I have no place to go, no one to blame, when no other reason comes to my mind for the reason my heart has grown cold, for my eyes seeking rain, when I see people sit back and look out from the window that once framed us as one. Without feelings, without missing anything, I think of you only to fill that space.
That feeling when something of this world rushes past you and you are nothing else for that moment but the afterimage of what has gone by, something that definitely was unlike your own self that never appears but only haunts.
I don’t know how people cope with that overwhelming storm of knowing the worlds that you can morph into and all the things that maybe you always were.
When you become a floating hat and its silent river, when you become the knob of the radio, the glass feeling the air before the snow, the shredded corners of a letter that weeps, the loudspeaker at the corner of the road with its abundance of sound and silence, the sundress peeled away, the flow of time and fate.
I don’t know what to make of this. I sit on tables filled with people who know a thing or two about life and they talk as if they have always been their skin, as if no one can be anything else but themselves. So I become the table feeling the soft elbows pushing down some loneliness with its weight. I become the napkin held in a fist.
I am now the sky looking down at me and now the child that I lost long ago. I am breaking and being taken over by all the beautiful lonely things. I feel I was probably made for this.
so my blue dream is not even mine now. i am just a mesh of people who hate me. their fingers are my fingers now poking my skin, endless railroads of red are built with their nails that they do not even cut before they sell me their fake love-filled eyes. their eyes are my eyes that wants to smash every reflective surface where i fall. every reflective thought is just a poison. a poison, a gossip, an untrue version of me running wild in the minds of those who look at me. they gossip about me so i gossip about myself , whisper my secrets into the air or better, into the ears of lovers who are chosen especially for their talents in indifference, vulnerability, and emotional violence. lovers who can break me – are all that i want. i need someone else to do this breaking for me because i am coward who can’t move towards the end i want, and also because my hands are busy. i have more things to do. i need my hands to tear my talents apart in the name of value, tear my feelings apart in the name of my worthlessness. i need my hands to paint again and again. paint indifferences on my insecurities that come a bit too often to the surface of my skin now, paint laugh lines on the bleeding corners of my lips, paint dreams of love, moments of hurt, grand betrayals on my otherwise lonely mind, paint humans that match the shadows in me, painting causes and assurances. i must paint. i must paint a reason- a reason why i suffer so, why this world works like how it does, why i must break as the world breaks, why i must break even for fixing this world. i must paint a face so that others don’t break at the sight of my face. i clip my nails everyday so that when i become someone’s ghost when someone suffers because of me at least my hands won’t leave them scars.
“I had it when I didn’t need it, when I wasn’t ready to face my own needing, cause my feelings for the delicate and genuine seemed hateful to me”,
out of everything that I tried not to know, you are the one most precious to me. Mostly it is because I didn’t really look at you so I have only these regrets to measure what you were.
And my regrets grow heavier with every encounter I have with this world that is filled with people like me. My regrets grow heavier even though I was so well suited, so ready to live and thrive in this real world, where you were destined to fail and wither and lose all that false light your prized.
My regrets grow heavier, the more I realize how much this world needs you and your friends, with your false beautiful ideals sewed on your skins. You would laugh if I told you about the people I meet everyday, people like me who can’t come in terms with the world they have chosen. I face their expecting eyes, I feel their hands searching in me for a glimpse of the world they have burnt. But maybe because it is you, you won’t laugh at it. Maybe you’d cry, cry in our stead, cry for all that we cannot cry for.
When they search for miracles in me I feel like a house with hidden doors and floors with bodies holding goodness lying breathless within. I fear when they find you behind every door- a miracle with your face, an end with your smile- then even these regrets won’t be mine.
So I try to be of use to them all the time hoping that they find the face of kindness only they know of, only they miss, the one only they want back. So that at least our mad hopes, will remain our own till the end. So that we gain nothing but remember everything and that remembering makes our hands, our hearts soft and breakable and beautiful like yours, like everyone else like you who did a world a favor by just existing.
When I try to imagine, to recall the face of another human being.
I always see them standing opposite me with an expressionless face, holding out their hand.
When they are ghosts of pasts, they are breathing cities of peculiarities and possibilities. I feel they were waiting for my hand to touch theirs. I feel as if they have saved up their last smile for that moment. The steps I couldn’t take, can now never take, they look so easy, so worth it, so worth keeping as regrets.
But I never learn because when they are reflections of present, they are breathing statues and frozen hearts that couldn’t possibly beat. I know that this hand is not for me, that I have extinguished the smile on that face just by being myself, just by existing.
Only the warm breath of passing time can make me miss the world that could have been. Only on the streets I cannot walk grow my trees of faith.
But even then, even for the past I barely feel any love. What I feel is something similar to the relief in the things that won’t change. The pull I feel is for the trust that can never be broken, my heart that I never had to give out, the hand of every stranger that remained innocent thereby.