Some kinds of love are made of flesh, that can be killed eventually however long it must take. Forever does not exist for everyone. But all that exists only in the kingdom of decay, all that refuses to leave this flesh as the knife of time cuts deeper and deeper, those stubborn ones who only tend to the roots of hopeless dreams it was probably them, who thought up this scheme of wanting a thing like this. This fragile cloud of “forever” that will rain any day and yet will rise from our tears and fill our skies again. I am sad to say I am too weak to stray away from those skies. I am yet to learn how to sever the wants of my gods from my flesh.
Can we really trust this map? I don’t. And I won’t till you give me the story of those who made it or even of those who followed it blindly, knowingly, as they sang of their love under their breath, as they shouted their own name in blizzards, and found their past stubbornly standing waiting for the impossible at the shores that were made to crumble.
Tell me how small fishes nibbled at their tears as they looked back at the shore, at themselves they will never return to. Tell me what happened of them. Tell me about where they stopped, where they left their breath lingering. Print me a book of 300 pages, devoid of observable facts, for every map you push into my hands. Give me a glimpse of the heart of the one whose words I must trust.
And once I see, I swear I won’t hold back. Even if all I see are tears I will take only steps forward. Even if all I hear are dissolving laughter I would chase their ghosts, I will call out to them. I will lose myself, lose my voice in chasing their fates. I don’t know what’s the point of this Maybe I just want to wander, maybe I just want to hurt and smile for someone else without a hope of getting something similar back. To see, without being seen. But I know I can only walk for this. I can only walk like this.
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.
I am told I am not wise, that I do not have the intellect that could make anyone swoon over me. I try too hard, put too much effort to be considered worth protecting. I rank even lower on the stats of beauty. I know that since I have found discarded papers written by boys-who-will-always-be-boys who document my plummeting desirability religiously. But since I am not the type to conform (tsk tsk…so many vices) I cannot help but choose to take on the role of the bitter girl and judge in my mind everyone who cruelly prosecutes me in jokes and harmless fun in my absence, but are kind enough to leave behind enough clues for me to figure out where I must stand in this world.
It has become my habit to consider them desperate, manipulative and not worth my time or attention. I know now, how to look down on everyone who looks down on me. It’s a wonderful feeling really. To feel like a flawed monster with some control. To be free from the want to be understood by the “cool” people. To stop expecting for things to change. I have enough paranoia and enough stubbornness to last this lifetime. I have enough reasons to hate passionately all those who hate me. I may know too less about life, I may underestimate the phrase “but-tomorrow-you-might-need-them” but I cannot turn my other cheek and I cannot let myself want to be a friends/minion of theirs. My heart may be dissolving in my own acidic hate for this world But at least I know I took on my own side in all my fights. I may not expect much from world, but expect a lot from myself. This is the bare minimum I can do to preserve myself in this world that changes everyone in the name of fun.