I remember you almost every day. I remember you when I wake up and cannot go back to sleep, when my skin feels heavy and my eyes melt into tears. I remember you when I find my way to the impossible happiness that shouldn’t exist for someone like me. And in those moments I do something worse- I end up asking heaven for forgetfulness of some kind.
Even when I know forgetting won’t save you, apologizing won’t save you, charity to strangers in your stead won’t save you, becoming a better person won’t save you. But even then I remain selfish Even then I wish for a painless way out.
I become guilty of one more crime every time I wish to erase the memory of you falling apart in my hands. The more I wear my clean clothes, the more the world believes in the goodness I now have in me; The more I know that there is no way forward for me just as there is no way back.
You still remain the unuttered name in my prayers. And all that my prayers do is to show me the hurt I can never take back. The god who refuses to save you is also the one who keeps me alive.
Amidst the clutter of her living room, I sat down with the last drink in her refrigerator- an extremely sour and almost suspicious orange juice.
I could look up the expiry date but it was already too late. I was almost down to my third sip. A thought that arrives a bit too late is probably a thought best forgotten. If I end up in ER for this, this might be my last orange drink. Sort of sad that the last orange drink in my life tasted like calculated foolishness rather than a bright sun and its shameless almost applaudable want of attention.
I walk around her apartment, looking at all the stuff she has accumulated over the years, things that I am rather too conscious to look at when she is awake. I do not know the face that I should make at the face of all that she can’t get rid of – the things she wants to throw away, the things that make her believe that she is an actual person with a life that was actually lived.
When I see her bleeding fingers, her grip, her intent to never fall from this precipice, her intent not to ever pull her self out of it; I end up finding all thing that I could have done, all that I could have been. I end up finding ways to have broken beautifully, to break in a way that wouldn’t endanger my will to live so much.
Which is weird because she is sadder than me. Which is weird cause I do not think the type of breaking matters that much.
They are just thoughts that have arrived a bit too late because now I have time to think, because now I have the heart to forgive, because I am that ideal age where I might opt to forget for the sake of my own heart.
If I end up in another heartache because of the things we can’t change anyway, if this turns out to by last love, then it is sort of sad that I can do only so little, that I can love this much.
In that room seated along with my anxious heart, my crumbling forevers, and my noisy pen, was you. You are now more colorful than ever- more real, more present. You are more you that before, more of a person that I ever could be. I envied you and loved you for that- that I remember.
I realize there other things that I don’t remember well, as you put on the record of “50 greatest pointless questions of all time”, as you sharpen the edges of your weak hollow anger, as you ask me to play a harmless game, another try at the precious once-in-a-lifetime love, another guess, another stab, another cut, another laughter echoing and tearing everything that almost made me human, another try, another guess, another endearing laugh at the sight of my tears.
I had decided that won’t flinch, that I won’t cry. I looked at the paper again that said that I am not actually hurt, that everything I suffer from is a making of my mind, that I am just too scared, too lonely to think straight ever again. I looked at it wanting to believe it but also knowing I won’t allow this paper to fix this for me.
For even to this image- this violent beautiful ghost of you, even to this- I felt I owed something. I still waited for you to give up. It still mattered to me – this confirmation- that what I loved also loved me back in some twisted way. So I nodded yes to another rounds of wrong guess, to this game I won’t ever win.
this person with dreams and purpose, this person with heartful of love and tears as a proof of its painful blooming, this person with a lot say and a lot to see with an agreeable “to-do” and hidden “what-if-I-never” list, this person good enough to be included in your plans, in your friendly banter, in your group chats, in your betrayals, in your short-lived love, in your museums of wax, in your corrupting memory, in your unreliable heart
this person – this image, is merely an excuse I give to world, an excuse I give to myself. So that I can continue to exist even when I don’t know why I must.
In the orange forest of drowning suns I saw your face in the light going out first. I stood with my empty nets, on a boat, with oars that won’t budge, won’t sail away from your closing eyes. I played this only memory I had of you throughout my journey back. When my feet found a ground to breathe again, you had already grown bigger, sadder, scarier, sorrier presence in my life.
Through my dinner that night, I thought up names you may have had, the people you may have loved, the heartaches you thought would never end. I thought of how easily things end, how nothing in our heart can save our heart from this lonely end. Were you thankful or sad that you had to know this, to share this realization with a stranger made of cold eyes and numb limbs?
That night I looked for your body in every ocean I had in me. I don’t know what was the point of this search but I knew I had to do something about you, that my feet had to walk distances because of you, that something in me must hurt more than it did now. That finally I had to die with you, to know what I don’t know now, to know even a fraction of your pain. I was sad and relieved that my need to know you ended there – with that thought, with the steps I cannot take.
“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.
DRAWING THE STARS WRONG all my hopes, now in your hands, feel like signs of trouble. i liked it on paper, the broken star in red ink, but not on my sky. can i undo my steps to you? will my heart break even if you leave my skin?
STRIPPING YOU OF FLESH before i turn away from you there are things that must be done. (only painful things are remaining no matter what i choose) everyday for a hour i must imagine being alone in this world. everyday i must imagine the relief you would feel at my absence. everyday i must imagine you with someone and being capable of caring. i must imagine in detail and color. i must put you on a window in clothes i don’t recognize. i must strip you of my love and hope you feel the warmth, even when my heart tells that you won’t. i must stand outside the shop i plan to leave you at and practice standing there without tears in my eyes. i must take your feelings out of picture to take even one step away from you. before i turn away from you i have to turn into the person who won’t be able to walk towards any happiness after leaving you broken.
MESSED UP SEARCH HISTORY in my room, on my phone, with another love, in the crowd that will never be mine, i feel my heart drunk on you again. and everywhere you are with me i need someone else to keep me from making another mess in your name, for my sake. in return, i love them the only way i can, the way only i can, by removing you from the search history of my mind every second i live. i love them by holding them back from running to the one, who like you, can only love in dark dripping red and swelling universe of purple.
THE EASY WAY TO LIVE speaking without fear, loving without abandon, sitting in sunshine, somehow loving the world, wanting to stay alive, getting comfortable with the concept of wanting, knowing the feeling of being considered and seen, (all this with you at the back of my mind). i told you, all this is my life now- the easiest life i have ever had. i hope you believe. it would be the happiest end, if you would accept this as the last scene of me in your life. i want to live so better, just so that you can forget the me who could do nothing but get hurt only because i didn’t want to live without love. i want to be better than that, even if it makes me sad.
the one thing i can’t be is honest. though there are many other adjectives that stare at me from their balconies at midnight as i walk and crawl through the dirt road, through the pool of lights, crying and shouting and breaking dreams in every home that i pass by. i hear them shaking their heads with disapproval and hopelessness. i look at their hazy shadows and try to hate them in equal measures but i don’t because they are so easy to forget. but this honesty, this honesty that people expect vexes me. this expectation makes me want to hide, run, run over their hearts all because it is so simple. all because the ones who ask me of this through their tears are not mere observers but are the ones struggling to stay close to me fighting the unnecessary sandstorm i create everyday. they are the ones who deserve honesty. they are the ones i don’t deserve. but my dishonesty is not only for this world. it is the only thing i can offer to myself as well. so again, i wake up in their arms with another lie ready on my lips. i hug them with with my true love and my false heart. i don’t try to make it right when they are in shambles again because there is no fancy way to put it, there is no beauty in what i do, there is no promise i would keep. there are only people who i leave. even when i can’t bear to miss one more person again.
I saw you in a moment abandoned by every story. I saw you slowly circling the window of life to find a way in. I watched you, waited for you as I lay on the painful bed of abandon, as I wrote my hundredth song on the beauty of giving up. With my eyes glued to you I ate another scoop of air and lied about the sweetness it fills me with. I wondered what a person like you would think of me. As you flit across my only sky I can’t help but hope for you, hope to be like you. I also can’t help but hope to be free from you. To wake up to a frozen window with nothing to stop me from…
As I climb, my steps remembered the shoes I once had the ones that didn’t hurt so much and how hands of mine that hacked through them just to become my own person, some sort of grown-up. I climbed over the yellow soft dress and the light that it caught just to get this, this body that looks held together but is not (this body knows only how to fall apart), just to get few more shadows that ruin my beautiful wrist with their persistent passion. They claw through me, to see how I am made, how I look and speak once I break. A stranger once left me at the bottom of a black pond and called it love just so that I won’t cry and in return I called him my love just for few breaths, just for my life. I climbed over the right to mean the word “love” thereafter and the dream of knowing a heart other than mine. I breathe as if I have sinned yet I walk like I am happiness and determination in flesh. I cling to all the bitter bits of this world as if they would ultimately save me. I climb over, get over, and forget so easily, so bitterly that each feeling of mine is just a shade of resentment.