Once I was told by my own shattering image that I would learn to laugh at this moment.
It was not a pleasant sentence to hear.
It reminded me of all the sentences that are manufactured in the factories of peace. you will forget this bruise. you will forget those words. you will forget this love. you will forget this face. forgetting is what you really want. far away from every “here” is the place you want to be.
It reminded me of all the meaningless words that were born everyday in the mouths of strangers – words that awkwardly held me not knowing who I am or why I must be consoled but convinced something in me should be put to sleep before it learnt to cry in the audible ranges of pain.
There are too many words in this place. Too little heart. There are too many people who look like they have known pains that I might never have. But they are the same ones who want to bury things that are only broken. So I am going to run towards every “here” out there, towards that lesser life filled with loss. A life where things that are lost are allowed to matter.
The river is finally running dry. I heard someone rejoicing to hear this. What is a river without it’s water? I am told it is money, it is development, it is more money.
Another colony, dozens of businesses springs up. There is nothing to be sad anymore. I walk on the roads trying to trace the skeleton of what is lost.
Now, I know the names of few more rivers that are nowhere to be seen on maps.
The numbers of such ghost keep increasing.
There is a language that no one cares for. There is a city that forces everyone to leave. There are words that don’t sound fancy anymore. There is an accent that needs to be exorcised from tongues- the identity of what we are is a secret, something we can be killed for.
But it is the season, the world where rivers dry out beautifully, where aches turn into anger, into revenge, into art, into denials, into search for something new. But rarely does it turns into tears.
How is it we have so much to lose, so much that is already lost and yet have so little to grieve about.
a broken end with a light (a lighter duller than me) touches me. someone says the magic words, the loathsome words that make me the old alice. i am made to leave the seat, the home, the dream, the rights that are too big for me. they leave me a tiny suitcases filled with fancy dresses made of used socks and handkerchiefs. they are cute, they are kind, they have read their fairy tales right. i have never read the right books, so i find myself unable to thank them or kiss their hands. thumblina says my new belongings in glitter i do not know what this name means or the fate that the owner of this name is meant to find but i have heard it is better than being an alice. (i liked being alice more i liked a story written for my sake.) as i walk into the new forest, towards hopefully my last story or at least a story i can make my own for once, i can’t help but think of all the laughing men, now laughing giants fixing my home to their liking. i can’t help but be a bit bitter looking at my hands that can only build for people like them.
Today I realized what to call all that I have been reading for so long. A person I didn’t mean to overhear called it ‘a sense of urgency’- the desire to save this world as soon as possible.
It seems the enemies are too many. I saw many names in the list of these enemies that I silently agreed with- pollution, dictatorship, bullying, monetization of education, competing in a rigged world, oppression of lives and loves of minority, hate crimes,…
I scoffed at some: the collapse of society in the hands of socially withdrawn, collapse of economy in the hands of those who want and do less, the unfeeling and unapologetic generation that seems to love depression, women whose learning and thinking too much only breaks families,…
“this is the cause worth dying for”- I suddenly became afraid of that feeling.
As I read all the absurd causes I couldn’t agree with. As I read and became exasperated at the words of those who were convinced that they knew better even as they killed and killed and killed and got addicted to seeing blood dissolving in oceans. I realized how dangerous this feeling could be.
“this is what to means to change the world. to change the world is to walk over everything I don’t want to see” My sense of urgency hated me for thinking this. It recited every quote about silence of good men. But all I could now see was the line that I must not cross, the words I must not say, the knife that I must never hold- no matter the cause.
snapshots of food i can’t eat? GIFs and videos to forward? people to gossip about? people to gossip to? friends? false sense of confidence? a filter for my mouth? a switch to put my heart to death? a reality check (altered to suit my expectation)? amnesia? counselling sessions? one more fun quiz to test my mental stability? therapy? a diary for my lies, so that I can keep my mess together, to continue making mess efficiently? pills? a makeover that suits your eyes? a surgery that can make me look good, make me worth introducing? someone to stop me? someone who won’t leave?
No it is not an escape anymore because it is not only me who is into these addictions of milder kind. All I want is what everyone already has. Don’t worry these books and music I get high on don’t alter my perception of reality like they used to before. So I am fine with irrelevant goals of having one more book to read, one more page to fill up, and some hours to sit and stare at screens of literature of a cruder form. They may not constitute the real meaning of life. But I have not seen anyone who is particularly worried about missing the real point of life.
. . . . . .
I know this consumerism and media culture irritates you. That I look like one of the thousands who sit and demand to be entertained, to be fed with something other than the reality of insufficient time and cash. Would it make me more real, would your gaze become more softer if I bring up a portion of my life where I was hurt by this world, when the reality didn’t change just because of my disappointment in it. That not everyone can be one with the nature and one with society, when nature is far away from where we are locked, when society is all about waiting for someone else to mess up on a grander scale than us. See that is what I don’t want to talk about. It is depressing enough to live it. We can either discuss about how I almost found friend in a fictional character, found a mirror or even a window in another, how I do not agree with most reviews, how I couldn’t get the tragic end of the story out my head.
. . . . . .
I don’t mind sitting in front immaculate shows of lies if that is where the my temporary relief of my life is hidden, at least we are entitled to that much – relief.