I would be busy scanning the shelves, my hands clutching a carelessly torn paper that mentions in your clear writing all that is essential to nurture tiny special things like childish loves and high-flying songs. I would walk down the aisle to the music of wedding march, to the noise of tiny wheels ready to dismantle, unable to find anything to save anyone. The remedies for a body that has known the laws of gravity too closely, the bottles that can hold happiness gifted by visiting dreams, the stickers of cracks to be pasted on the dams holding us back- they are no longer sold here. Like a typical maid running out of a ball, with no prince, no magic, no new fate tailing her shadow with my back adorned by lights of structures that now only sell numbness and the promise of easy breaking down, I face the streets that are oblivious to their own dissolving. I face your absence once more to remind myself why nothing works anymore.
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.”
someone whispered you are special and i knew that this is sleep (the pleasantly confusing side), that this is a memory of something that will never happen again (should i be sad?). paper dolls hurried me down the aisle of a supermarket, opening up packets and packets of laughter that I had not yet paid for (should i be worried?) They made me stand at the counter, chirping “it’s time”, “it’s time” “it’s time” and someone who tried hard to look like a human, who had tried to scratch away the face of demon drawn by my hands, stood with a trolley filled with sad colors, handed me his card with my name written on his scratched out one and told me “now you fall”. and all i could say was “i hate you” “i hate you – not in used-to-love-you way” “i hate you – the way i hate having a broken heart” “let me wake up”
My love for you is nothing special. We are not the only ones whose life is turned upside down by the sheer force of our heart. But would we have known what our hearts are capable of if we didn’t see it for ourselves. If we didn’t fail, would we have known, that the ending we took for granted was not the default setting for this game. “I am your nothing and you my nothing” Is it too late to admit this (to lie)? Walking towards you, into your arms I want to forget this feeling, can I?
Everyday I dislike my love for you a little bit more. All this talk about convenience, about being of use to each other should not be called love. If I love you because you understand me then it is not you who I love but anyone who can understands me.
“i am comfortable with you” “you make me feel special” “you can heal me” “i like spending time with you” “you listen to me” “you treat me well” “you are beautiful” (how you look pleases my eyes and my heart)
My liking you seems more about me than about you. I am disappointed by how I love only for myself. Why aren’t you?
I tell myself stories about why I threw away all that I had, or why everything was taken away from me. How I was too weak, will always be too weak to carry the weight of the gifts that I had. Or how I was never quite convinced that I had something to be proud of. How I was always trying to gauge how much deep my feelings ran for everything that I could only sort-of-love. I can list all similar attempts where I sought a better quantitative understanding of my specialness and used these unreliable results to decide how and when to give up. But if I had to give one consolidated story of why I was never a failure at anything, why I never succeeded, why I had nothing to show for the years I lived or for the talents that people remember me for. If I had to be concise and true I would say I never made those decisions, I was never aware of how I felt about all the things that bother me now. I drifted away from what I was, from what I treasured, the way dear friends lose touch, lose each others name, lose a happiness they could have had. Only to be reminded of this loss when it no longer matters.
There is only this life, that is made by imitation of stories. Stories that told me how to feel and what to say, told me to cry and ruin myself if you turn away, told me to leave my everything for your sake, never told me how tedious all this could become and how much frustrating it would be to have a love that doesn’t give me back all that I was guaranteed to get. What to do if I am no gentle virtuous princess or even a woman of strong heart and character but a person not even worth a mention, let alone a heart. What to do when I am indistinguishable from the gray crowd, when I am not so special and not so deserving of all that I want. What to do when my clocks have stopped in that one moment that I let myself down and every kind lover is separated from me by this distance in time.
Excuses are futile, reasons unnecessary. You may have sad story but who doesn’t. I don’t want to know what you went through. I don’t want to melt my indifference and disregard and become the only character who suffers for their understanding. I don’t want to be that lone person who considers even small actions so that the ones who are already hurt, don’t break on their watch, don’t die on them.
But it is difficult to be kind to the ones who end up living for their pain, who think their pain makes them special, who would do anything to keep their status of the ones needing protection. It is tiring to continuously ache for others. It is tiring to see everyone walking back to their mistake in the name of love, in the name of passion. Don’t tell me about your sadness and worries. Don’t ask me for support and advice. I cannot forgive those who return to the normality of their hell leaving me as the only one who should have known better than to help those who can’t make up their mind.