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.”
The city of wax and sun was, for the lack of better words, like living in a home that will vanish and does vanish- the vanishing always a spectacle and a sorrow. The nights were all about breathing religiously every second to catch a brick, a bell, a railing to hold onto, the dear gods carved in stones, the plate touched by my mother. Breathing in again and again and coming up all empty, we used to wait for sun and dread its heat always worried and excited about the drops and vapors we would catch and all that we were going to lose. Since nothing apart from the breathing would survive, since the new-born stone and grass knew nothing of death or its mark, there never was a funeral, no graves, no photographs to devote our tears to. All our oceans would rise within us falling at the steps, the stones, the memories of everything that cannot prove its reason to stay anymore.
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.
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.
The ripples spread out and march towards the far end of happiness. They die and are born again under the wish of my yet-to-break mind. I am carried to the place that was never made for my sake but yet seems to be made out of a piece of me, of my own heart.
The far end of everything has this one branch and this one bird. This one song that seems to be something sent by the heavens, something that can’t be given in my hands, something too precious, too beautiful to be bestowed to me. Maybe for a reason, that I will realize too late. But how do I stop before that.
I am always at the far end of wanting. The perfect distance to always be aware, to know what could be and yet know what isn’t. At this end also, inside me, inside this hollow haunting, is also a tree, a bird, a song. Even if made of dust it is my own drowning lighthouse- my only spring that tries to breathe, retain its humble peace before I reach my ruin. Before I learn why I must give up what I always knew I can’t have.
Descend here in the this pit made of fire. Come and die here with me and then, only then I will believe in your love.
I know I am made of fire and you are nothing but wood. I know you will burn, I know it hurts. I can see it in your face and that’s the appeal. It shows that its meant to be.
There is only this love that I want. It need not be from you. It need not be like this. But now that we are here and since life is short, I can make do with you.
I can make do with love that looks at me as if I have lost my mind, as if I could be better than this. I wonder if you could reason out all this, I have given up long ago. I won’t be surprised if you choose yourself over this madness. In fact I am sort of counting upon it. Save yourself. Stay away. And now don’t ever talk about love so easily.
Somehow I feel that the ropes that we walked on for each others sake were never really ropes but figment of our imagination stretching from your mind to mine connecting centers of chaos and wanting and hatred without direction.
Once I thought we stood together against everything else, against every force of reality. But now that my sockets have grown eyes and now that we have moved so far away from our self-indulgent blindness that we could never separate ourself from.
Now every glimpse of past is sad and pitiful. Looking back why does it seem we were just clinging to each other as if we were each other’s last hope. As if we let go, we would never know happiness of any kind. As if we held on, we could change each other and find in each others changing a reason to smile.
But thankfully or regrettably, I have not grown much cause sometimes I feel thankful to you for sharing all the dark moments with me even if you caused half of them. I feel oddly grateful to you for sharing my pitiful fate, my mundane days, my cycles of planned and impulsive destruction, for walking with me to our day of separation.
I hope that we find happiness in future without pinning our hopes on the ruin of another. I hope we see the ruin when our hands begin to create one. It was not all bad. Or maybe it was worse than I remember. Oddly enough I wouldn’t change our fates. But I will never wish for it again.
When I think of you in an indefinite future without me,
when I think of the past, this glowing mixture of wax and webs, sticking to my eyes, to my uncertain touch, to my every new dream and hope for love;
when I cry, when I laugh, when I say even my own name the mountains of stories, send me back your voice. They say you will be cited as the reason for my every my recklessness and my every holding back.
True to the prophesies of love my skin wilts and dies and eats itself up. My heart cries and cries and makes jokes about crying. Nothing makes sense and yet everything is just as it should be.
And now I can call you my everything and nothing in the same breath and still know that even if I let your shadow swallow me whole I can’t ever call all this love. I won’t ever feel “love” for you again.
Yet only sad poems spring from my mouth, when I think of you.
Sometimes when I forget to live, to see ahead, I find myself back again in the house of wood beside my child made of sand. He looks like me most of the days, sometimes she looks like him. They are often speaking like chorus of brokenness.
Some days they tell me that they are not mine, that they are not children, that I am not me. I ask them then why do I feel the way I do? why do I hurt the way I hurt? And hearing this they become the sand that I can only cry upon. They don’t come alive until another time.
But until that, I must be me, and see things not being themselves. The sand that was a life a second ago, it melts, it grows wings and opens its eyes and burns as sun.
Sometimes it opens it eyes and starts crying in my arms. It tears my skin, it makes me smile all my dying parts wake up but in a world where no such beautiful haunting exists where I have no reasons to cry only tears that never stop.
I tried being cool about it. I tried not to call it a heartbreak. I tried forgiving. I tried thinking ‘my life is not over’. I even invented some feelings that can be talked about. I entertained the stupid idea – “it’s all for the best”. I fed it all I owned, and soon I didn’t have much left to keep that play going. I think there are still hundred things more that I have not yet tried. Maybe one of them would work.
Or maybe till I reach the end of this list, I would probably forget who I was or who you were, and maybe you would just melt into my identity – claiming 2% of my faults, causing 25% of my breakdowns, the major reason for my suspiciousness, the only reason I can’t seem to be myself. Just like how I pick up all odd habits and mannerism from people I don’t even recall, will you end up becoming things that I do without reason, becoming my convenient excuse for turning my back on anything that can become more important that me in my own life.