My emptiness is finally put to use. The fishes swim in me – the luminous disfigured creatures of depth and the beautiful dying ones of light, fill me up one by one.
I teach them songs of sorrow. I hold them in my endless embrace singing them back to life and in return they let me feel like someone who can protect, love, and shield. They let me feel things no human ever could.
Even though I hate to be seen I smile as my body is put on display. My skin, the strongest glass. My skin, the weakest beams. The shallowest of oceans I become.
Humans hold hands, hold themselves as they stand before me. They find possibilities, mysteries, awe in all that I hold inside, in all that isn’t me.
i would wake up and find myself again in another room with another stranger (obviously broken) and i would try to remember the night before, the season before, the feelings before i ended up here. i fail to recall the pain that drew me here, i fail to remove this person from the mess of all the words that has been said to me before. before is now a continuum. and “you”, “me”, and “us” and “we” are just terms that point nowhere, to nothing but they carry too many people inside, the seams of these words are always coming apart, there is too much weight to these light words, they leave our shoulders and heart broken. how lovely it would be to be singular again. how simple everything could be. but everything tends to flow, tends to merge, tends to find roots every time it taste defeat, it finds ground. it is still somehow good. though good is maybe a relative term. but then everything is relative, even us. me and you are different only when we are placed far apart in time and space. as i drown diaries and memories in the waters of the forests that you used to visit, i find myself walking as you, sharing your skin of fear, speaking the broken language of your dreams. as you, i end up drowning a lot more, losing a lot many things than i had planned to. it doesn’t hurt, honestly, when that happens. a lot of things should hurt but they don’t. and i feel that is my tragedy. i used to feel every loss even of others and i loved it. and now because i feel nothing i have taken up jobs on the excavation sites of pain of strangers that are dying from numbness. my presence seems to help, at least diverts attention. the “too much” about me helps everyone but me. i have an excess of blood, an excess of heart however implausible that might seem. but it is so. i have learnt that after numerous burnings and denial. all that breathes, all that seems to be made of magic and speaks in voice of thunder, anything that we don’t understand we have burned them enough. we are burning too much of ourselves. but that is not my problem. at least not my only problem. i have never had a definable problem. but we can talk as if they are, as if everyone can be broken down into components of their loss and yearnings and lacks, their playlist and bookshelves and friend list, the people we hate and love and can’t stop to obsess about- the people we are dying to forget and living in remembrance of. we sound so noble tonight when we talk like this . as if we are above the shallow plains of life. i will forget your name though, and you will also forget or at least would want to forget a lot about me that is a totally different type of shallow, isn’t it. we have shared so much and we will hate ourselves for it.
It is not the night that brings in the monsters. They are just creatures, just nature- that exist outside the door that you are guarding.
They come in because this world is theirs as well. They come in because they can, just like how you can go out. This is the fair deal you don’t want to exist.
At least they do not look for you, they do not mark your picture and throw darts at it. I love them for that, for the lack of vicious premeditation, the lack of fun in their delivery of hurt.
The river of pills that flows into my window has nothing to do with them. The hurt that keeps you awake, the nails that slowly make marks on the surface of your eyes
this ruined place, this brokenness are always the gifts of the ones who look like us. This has nothing to do with the monsters. This has nothing to do with nights.
But has knowing such things ever helped. The days are just as frightful as nights. Now anything that looks like me, and everything that doesn’t – they are possible ends of me.
Now I must either run away from everything or must end up loving them all, forgiving them all – this broken temple of knowledge, this fake shallow sacred unions, these glorious wretched feelings that won’t let me remain me. How far should I run. How foolishly should I love. How do I decide.
Their torn ends, their disappearing body, the plastic wings at the corner of the shallow pockets (that were actually good for nothing) now look like a teardrop determined to stand till the very end. Isn’t it all so ridiculous, laughable, and sad? The blue that never dies – doesn’t it fill you with anger at the unfair paces each component of this world moves? The half alive part of everything cursing the other broken half for taking them down as well. Isn’t it a bit too noisy here to miss or accept anything?
(Or am I the only one?)
All the treasures are now at the pawn shops, and the bottom shelves of the rooms and houses, countries, and identities abandoned, in the words that belong to pseudo names and ‘anonymous’, in the trash cans of people who swear never to love you again. They lie deleted and dumped under the bridges whose shadow rubs your back as you try to vomit out the leftover love eating your heart.
While everything to be thrown away is always there in the cupboard, in the handbags, on the sofa, in your phone talking up extra space, waiting for you to forget them, get fed up of them, waiting for you to throw them away, so that they can haunt you, so they can be your another true love. Till they are your sole teardrop when it all ends.
i cried again today – a silent sob hidden behind the highest volume of television. yesterday i found my grief for a second in the fading of another song. it lasted for a second- my glace, my hopeless glance at your retreating figure and my fruitless love left in its wake. a shallow love clenching my heart.
i think this suits me most- to lose myself and yet look okay. god gave me a face that always looks okay even when i don’t want it to. (there have been only handful of days when i want to look as miserable i am.)
i wonder how it feels to say “do i look broken today yet? “i cried all night”. i have never cried at nights. i have never skipped a meal for my sorrow. i feed my heart too much fats and instant unhealthy happiness. i cut down my green trees and kill few birds, make a fresh trap that smiles through my gaping wound.
i live life the only way i can. look okay cause all parts of me are still working fine. god gave me a heart that doesn’t break the conventional way. i walk this world fearing this heart the most.
i read this on a torn sheet of paper that was lying, waiting (possibly for me?) in that empty hall, that on a normal day has never known empty. and being who i am, this again had to be an easy answer from a higher power. being who i was i believed that the confusion in my mind rocked every throne in heaven. so again i assumed as i said i never would, that these must be the words that could solve me. never mind the context, never mind the book or it’s title. there is so much missing and this paper still remains it might mean something, it must mean something, everything had to mean something for me to somehow go on. it said “your desire would burn away, the moment you let it have your words” so i uttered your name with the place you have in my heart. i mustered up enough courage to speak of the place i wanted in you. it sounded dubious and shallow. it sounded so much like me that i thanked myself for not saying it to you. i made a clean tear through that piece of paper for being too right and being too wrong and walked away wanting now to become a better vessel, the person on whose lips these words would really sound the way they felt i walked away waiting for my mind and your heart to become good enough for those feelings.
I wanted to write something about you, before I start forgetting- who you were, who i was with you, how we lived, and how we learned how to not live, how we felt the extremes of helplessness, with each other.
But I do not want to be the only voice actor in this otherwise silent movie. I could never read your lips. I never moved mine. But it should have been enough. You convinced me that I would be enough for you.
But as I suspected you knew too little of yourself. As I knew, my love also had limitations. We hated what we saw in each other. So you covered your eyes with anger, I covered mine with fear. And all we did for years is to sing to each other about the loneliness that we had gifted each other.
If only we could give up on ourselves earlier, we may not have suffered so bad, we might not have hated each other so much.
I wish what we had was something shallow. But it was not, our wounds are proof of that.
Lets just say that we would live on just fine and try to believe in that as long as we can.
should i thank you for becoming the faceless stranger that i dread the most?
you are the new voice inside my head. less of a voice, more of a threat.
how should i make you happy? how can i shut you up?- is all i think about. i want to grow up and grow out of this mind that can’t take even this shallow critique. but i can’t. how can I confront you when you may actually be correct about me?
what should i do? remain a nothing till your attention shifts? learn to cry without being bashed for my weakness?
but at least I am glad I am not your type, that I am not the excuse you would use to pull someone else down.
so goodbye “the embodiment of my self-doubt” thank you giving me another grief to write about, for speaking your mind and taking away my voice.
All that you don’t know of,
all that I fear
stands behind the door,
waiting for the right time to ring the bell,
to call you out for a moment
so that it can tell you about
the mistake that has been made.
has brought you someone with deeper love and better heart
and shows her off as they new discovery, the new fact,
discusses with you how to go on about correcting
all the text, all the promises, and all the future plans.
I look at her, looking at you
and I see what I must have looked like
when once I found your door
and was happy to find my rightful place.
While you nod your head along
how to tell me that I need to get going
that there is not much space for misunderstandings
and no time for crying over what must be done.
Yesterday, I loved you.
Yesterday, you loved me back.
Today, my depth are the new shallow.
Today, you can only give me as much attention as
a passing cloud in the sky.