In every country, in every city, on every street stands a home that could have been ours. I am a daydreamer like that As I passed the house with an always crying child, as I passed the house with the overwhelming smell of incense, as I passed the house with singing reality shows played on repeat I only thought of the life we could have there. In my mind, we fit every house, we fit every role. Even if our body was stripped of every muscles and every bone even if we put back together the wrong way, even if we our heart were to be rearranged, in my mind we would still fall in love. That is how we had molded the spirit of our love- to be stubborn (if not right or just). But now there are years when I don’t remember you, and yet there is no sadness in me that is capable of ruining me. You are gone and I am trying to grieve for something I don’t particularly miss. As I pass the houses where our stories used to be staged I realize they are again the buildings of strangers that I am supposed to keep my mind away from. My sadness selfishly keeps uttering, “I need to love someone, someone who won’t do this to me. I need to love someone, to believe in love again.” I reach home with bloody nails and bruised fingers leaving behind bricks with our names scratched out.
Another day flashes across my sky. Another moon rushes past my life. There are clouds that I have learned to walk on. There are days when I forget how afraid I am of this world. This is what my miracle looks like.
There are songs that never meant anything till you sang them for me. As I play hide and seek with your smile, I am forgetting the reasons to hate myself. I am forgetting things that I never allowed myself to forget. This is what my miracle looks like.
I dream of a one room castle. I find the idea of falling in love with this world something worth looking forward to, something worth a try. I find the courage to want the impossible. I find it easy to put my heart outside my body, in this world. Nothing breaks, nothing withers. Finally, my heart grows old with me. This is the miracle that walked into my life holding your hands.
it was once possible to be a parrot who was a doctor who sang in a choir of angels who saved the world from villains with ridiculously evil funny names.
it was easy to speak of wants- a pair of shoes with lights and a glow in dark radium cello tape and an army uniform and cream rolls and a tiara with anything that shines and the cards i don’t know how to play and…
once i used to be simple. i left my sleep to live like the guy who runs for hundred years to rescue the princess. waiting to reach a blurry 8-bit princess that never shows up at any castle of my world was not a source of disappointment (or depression) then.
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.
The trees are alive today. They ask me to sing them to sleep for the last time. I sing for hours but they refuse to close their eyes.
They ask me how I have been, not waiting for my answer, in one breath they ask about the words they don’t understand, ask me about the days I do not remember anything about (there are so many days I have no memory of while I can’t forget the days I really want to forget), about the rain that has left us long ago.
Their love for this world that they do not understand- makes me jealous, makes me wonder, if I could love also this world as much as I want to if I knew a little less, if I gave up this human heart that knows nothing but to steal and plead, to take away and bleed. But if I knew how to give up myself for my greater good, I would have done so long ago.
I can only stay selfish, act better than what I am, sing songs to the trees that will soon be killed for my sake.
i break another glass today, the girl with blue highlights in her hair walks over it without bleeding but tells me not to try such things at home on my own, that it took her years of invisibility to even try such tricks. but she has no suggestions for what else i should do instead of breaking my smooth skin and wrecking my good name. so she tells me a story about a girl and wolf, another about a girl and her impossible dream, about a girl and her sad prince, a girl and the dark world, a girl and whatever wants to break her down. she tells me i don’t have to be that girl. that i just have to be person who happens to be a girl and not hate herself for it.
it is night already. i find myself in strange blue rooms. i hold hands with another new stranger who promises to sing me to sleep. he walks like heartache that knows how to smile. he pretends to be the real deal. he is too drunk on his own sad story like me to even see anyone else. so no we are not in love. i just want to borrow his songs, his voice, his awareness of all that is wrong. i look out of his window, at my own home at my friends, at my love, at broken frame of my family, at myself who is trying too hard to be indifferent to it all.
the battery of my phone dies and i am alone again in this life that i can’t find my way around. i am somewhat lost, tired, and yet somehow happy to have lived through this despair, through another dark night.
It hurt to know, how people live, how they smile, how they could look at each other, how they felt welcome wherever they went, how they could sing along and not be reminded of all the sadness that song carried in itself. How my desolate riverside was their ‘beautiful view’, their ‘venue for celebration’.
I saw it and cried for I realized that this life could never be mine. I cried because I realized something must be wrong with me to not want this life. I cried because I couldn’t understand how to set things right.
We sit here all day, in our own corners. The only corner that we could save from the world that we left. The only piece of happiness we decided to carry on ourselves because we didn’t wanted to be considered pitiful for clinging to something. Because once we thought that feelings such as these are only hindrance. Because we saw love as lint on our fine clothing, something that should be removed like weeds from the garden of our ambition. Believed that if we are enough, if we have enough we can always find new friends and new love.
In the wind, there always used to be a rumor of someone drunk on past, the one who used to shout and sing at midnight songs about how nothing new he bought, no one new he gave his heart to could make him forget about all those he had turned his back on. My friend, I am afraid we have become that same person. And we are pathetic not because we loved too much but because we couldn’t love anyone, not even ourselves.
I like days like these
when the clouds cover up my view of sky
and make the light from sun
lighter and softer
for it hurts my eyes less,
hurts my heart less.
These days reveal to me a happier me,
who has shared my life silently.
In the song I hum
there are sprinkles of your love
but never quite enough
to call this songs yours.
The songs I sing
on days like these
are always about myself.