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.
sometimes i dream of emptiness – it looks festive and grand, it looks like people rushing in with their wants and talks about wants and talks about not having their name in any list of wants and talks about wants that they saw the other say that they just couldn’t wrap their heads around and talks about wants that didn’t last that long and talks about wants that don’t seem to die and someone wanting to burn some wants cause they just can’t stand them, cause they just can’t stand a world that is not filled with their lookalikes and someone wanting to become a 24×7 monsoon, so that such an anarchic want can never see any fruit and then 100 people enter a room which only has room for 10 they are torn between killing other 90 or making the room bigger by bulldozing the rooms around, some have already started to eat less and breathe less and want less so that they take up less space, cause nothing seems to be working, they sometimes talk about wanting back the past, wanting back the limbs and heart that, they realized too late, won’t grow back and the room is now bigger where 100 people are now 10000 people and the other rooms and other worlds are now floors the people with better and certified normal wants walk upon and some keep digging for the ones that are buried, for the ones that still can be saved, they keep getting arrested and get locked up in cells that have always room for more and things like that just keep happening- hurtful things, beautiful hurtful things, ugly hurtful things. and my eyes see only wants and hurts and i am not sure if it is a good thing or a bad thing that i can’t see another human in sight.
I guess now I am the cruel one- the one people fear to love. This scenario was meant to be sad, but it isn’t somehow. (Why do the worst cases taste so bland to me when finally they arrive?) I guess it makes me relieved, if not happy, to feel loneliness more often than feeling distance. No one knocks at my door, and I can’t help but smile knowing it also means no would leave me. No one would leave me in love, leave me in pieces, leave me hating myself again. (Why do my hopes sound like running away even if I am facing life in every way I can, the only way I am allowed to, the only way forward that doesn’t require sacrificing myself again?)
As my teacher with broken voice dictated another question on radius and heights and the mountains where no snow, no season, no name sticks; I turned another page and wrote the name of an emperor who died even though he believed he won’t. I smiled and tried to correct the very very wrong spelling of a national political party that my friend wrote. It doesn’t matter she said, when I couldn’t figure out what was exactly wrong with it. At lunch, she leaned against the wrong window, the one with fresh coat of blue paint, and told me a joke which she memorized only to remember it wrong. I again gave her the laugh that meant nothing in particular. But I knew she loved it when I reacted like this- as if she is forcing a laughter out of my silent somber heart, as if she is winning over me all my resistance. But I was nothing like that. I was nothing like she thought me to be. My heart was already open. She was already inside me- writing melodies with her soft steps beside me, painting summer sun over every window I looked out of. But these are things that need no telling, there are my treasures I won’t allow her to take back, these are the answer she will never realize. I hand in another assignment, another answer sheet that looks too little like me, that raises the eyebrows of people who realize they couldn’t teach me a thing right. I walk back to my seat wondering if my shirt is tainted red with my love like her back is filled with butterflies of blue.
I crawled to the window in my dress torn by the claws and cries of people who live in my nightmares. They like clean living rooms, dark courtyards, and cars with slashed tires sitting in their garage. They have “broken hearts” written down in forms as their identity and broken chandeliers swept under their bed. They crouch down and look at me as the broken lights shine red, as I see myself bleed beautiful rivers, as my silent scream become winds, become ripples, becomes the face that will forever make me cry. They smile and ask me “What do you wish? How do you want to be saved?” while someone else burns the bed that I am crushed under and asks me “Is this the what the warmth felt like in your mind?” They drag me out into a forest, where under the brightest tree of hope, they stuff darkness into my throat, into my mind and ask me “Do you still feel empty?” They are unreal and of unsound mind. They tell me living in me makes them so. They wave goodbye to me with a smile, offering me a sweet candy for my silence and understanding It is raining when I open my eyes. I breathe in the world where bleeding and burning is irreversible, where it would lead to an end of some kind. I crawl to the window in my torn dress and my exhausted skin and find myself staring at people who used live in my nightmares, people who look more real that the living me. People who now own more than just my dreams.