Have you found a way to leave everything that you call your ground- your ground of anger, of rusting armour of indifference, of the trauma the heartless giants planted in your heart, the compass that shows all the wrong directions and always takes you to the nearest cliff, again and again. Have you found a way to be better, to live better? I haven’t yet.
Yesterday I listened to a stranger talk for hours about how it can be done, how it will end when we want it to. It made me wonder if maybe we are not yet ready for this groundless life. Maybe that is our only issue.
All that can save us is so temporary, so transient. Yet the thing that ruins us, is ours to keep- not like the sun, but like the demon that needs our skin to live. I wonder if we just need to be needed that badly. Is that why we choose to cry than to change? Is that why we choose to hold onto the wave that is drowning us- just because it is here, because it is ours till it kills us. Among many other things I also wonder what made us like this. To be honest I am afraid to know.
For a change I made breakfast for one and didn’t cry over it. I didn’t turn back as he packed his favorite parts of this heavy life with me. He didn’t ask me about the things I have hidden away. I felt a bitter thankfulness that my memories are mine to keep, that my beautiful moments have been erased from his heart, that I am not a part of his greed and schemes anymore, that nothing in me can be ruined by him after this.
I simply stared at the milk that won’t boil as he dragged away in his small heart the window frames, the doors to my cold world, the warm flame of my blue stove, the table mats on which we spilled our hearts by mistake, the songs that I will never be able to sing again, the doorbell, the welcome mat, our plants that never grew more than a millimeter in spite of the four years of sunlight and rain. Mistakes. We created so much with love, only to call them mistakes.
I heard the door close behind me, my so called “heart” moving away without me and all I could do was hope or pity myself. All I could do was hate him so that I can finally give up.
“warm” this word has become cold sitting at the base of my throat my throat burns and my everything else? my everything else -my pretty flesh and my ugly insides- who want me to be there and at the same want me gone. i guess they want me to change. this is my new low where my organs are my imaginary friends the only ones Ican talk to, the only ones who need me, the only ones I can disappoint, my new friends who are learning the weariness of living for me. I ask around for a lover who has a love for knives and tolerance for madness of all kinds. I hear a hundred thousand sighs in me when the new replacement of romance appears, asks me my name and digs his sharp canine teeth on the last bits of my happiness as a hello. The hundred folded cranes look more like ravens and the one who promises me an end is now my only hope. Now things are easy now that I can’t hear myself breaking now that I have this strange loud laugh to hide behind, this person stranger than me, taking up the blame of everything I have done, helping me hide from everything that I have killed in my life.
The memories I burnt away have turned into spirits, into thoughts that hold me back from naming and keeping this happiness that sits at my doorstep, waiting for my love. And though the shadows of my past are tied to my legs, though they rattle on empty roads and never let the the dust of my life settle. But ‘it is not so bad’ is also a sentence that I have learnt to say with ease and I sometimes even mean those words as they leave my mouth. For there is a doorstep where a heart like yours waits for me to heal, your wait makes the plant of trust grow in my heart again. Every morning I find myself, my lips a bit closer to the the words that only you deserve to hear.
I walked into troubles, into fogged minds, into friend circles that cultivated their alter egos on every meager piece of earth that they otherwise couldn’t plant their feet upon.
I walked into crumbling cities, into impossible dreams, into the lifeless replicas of your heart- hoping you would come after me. But as time ate me up I just hoped that you’d remember name at the least.
I wish that you had stepped a little closer to me, given me false hope, and broken my heart. but I have nothing of you, nothing to hate you for, nothing to remember your love by, except the empty place I made for you to stay in me – the only part of me that makes living difficult for me.
“Yes, I do have plans for my future my dear aunt.”
I say, after I see her put her cup down and look at me
with sympathy and resentment.
“How can we not worry.
It is your future we are talking about.”
Actually, I never had these conversation,
at least not with my aunt.
I never had such an aunt to bother me.
But there are relatives and other faces
that I am hiding under the name of a non-existent aunt.
Sometimes it is me who is hiding under that name instead.
I am handed down spare maps
that I am supposed to study and follow.
Mark my route and choose someone
who could help me get up in the morning
even if it out of hatred.
I am sure it will be hatred
because I have seen no one one who has sorted their life
to wake up feeling that they have done it right.
My bitterness might make me seem like
a remainder of uneasy and uncomfortable families,
but it is not so.
There are just too many non-existent aunts in our house
who thinks we could have done better, chosen better,
if only we could get our act together
and stopped acting like the world owes us some kind of happiness.
This constant re-evaluation of life
and its result coming out as failure every time
makes everything we live with
and everyone we choose as a mistake.
What is this “better” that doesn’t let us live?
I lose memory of the nights when you crept up the walls of my life. When you planted the seeds of doubt and made my each step wary and my words full of fear. One day I woke up knowing that I was not me, but you. I was living the second chance of your life. I could no longer make the decisions that I want to make. I just had to stay clear of all your mistakes. That was my map. Everything else, even me, seemed hazy and inconsequential in front of your plans. But how long can we bear the weight that no one put on us, that we stole from their stories and silent sobs. How much of our life is ours?