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.
I think of the clothes that are too tight or too loose for me, of my skin that doesn’t like me the way it used to. How the mirrors in my home are hidden by the growing towers of books. I wonder what this says about me? I think of the fear that I feel when I am alone, the fear that I feel when I walk into happiness. I think of the kinds of fear that fill my heart. I count them for a long time but nothing happens when I finish counting. I wonder if knowing myself is really the first step to solving my life. Do I want anything to be solved? I count the people that who no longer speak to me and half way through I remember that it was me who had thrown them away first. Silence is my weapon, not theirs. I realize I need to always hold a grudge against someone to live with strength. I wonder when this strength became so important to me. I wonder when this love that felt like a lemonade in summer actually became a commercialized product with an expiry date stamped on it before it even reaches our hands. I think of my skin by which I am stuck to a world like this. I wonder why I pretend to be better than this world by saying such stuff? Why am I so into acting all deep and philosophical? I wonder why I love to call myself broken even though I hate to be seen so? Don’t misunderstand me. I do not want answers. Answers are painful and pointless, answers are a tasteless end to the struggle that otherwise makes my heart bleed colors.
For long I have lived
avoiding a lot in life.
The sting of disappointment.
The pointless chatter that becomes
a habit. A lovely company.
The colors that didn’t suit me,
colors that I loved just the same.
But now I miss the life in my heart
and the pain that made skies and stars more bright,
that made earth more warm, and love more necessary.
Looking at the flowering trees
across the road,
I was thinking about life and loneliness.
How pointless everything is.
How shallow our lives.
And I missed my bus.
And I realized
the same way
I may have missed a lot in life
and not known.
Maybe I thought too much
And felt too little.