the sun is so much brighter than it used to be
it makes me wonder if i remembers my days correctly.
has it always been like this,
when did my eyes start creating its own darkness.
(is there a word for it?
like there is a word for plants creating food from the drops of sun)
were you always this beautiful?
were you always looking at me with those kind eyes?
my broken mind only remembers cruel gazes.
why did it never take your image in?
how is it so easy to not see?
why is it so easy to believe the worst?
what if i walk over to you, try to smile with you
and call what i feel love
how long will my new vision stay with me?
do you know how to love a blind bitter person?
i am asking since i am always not like this
i asking because i want to meet you again on a dark cloudy day
i want you to know of my blindness
before you love me back.
That day when it rained of
bruised and dying birds
of feathers marked with colors only
an arrogant and confident cruelty can cause,
everyone looked about for an umbrella
to protect themselves from this vision
that they didn’t want to witness.
This was not the historic moment
that they wanted to be part of.
I could understand their willingness to believe
that the marks of fingers in the blood and bodies
that filled up the roads
can be called natural causes.
It was probably better
than knowing the names of people whom we may have laughed with
only to know they know how to fly,
how to clip wings and suspend the decaying bodies in air
while we asked them the directions for our life,
while we asked them to tie up our laces as a child,
while we asked them to love us, and build a new life.
I guess even the innocent
got fed up of being looked at like a potential danger
or tired of looking for one.
It was probably more convenient to come to an understanding,
of agreeing on a made-up fact
that this all is part and parcel of being a bird in the sky,
that birds should know better than to fly,
and tempt innocent humans into life of crime.
Birds at their best should just chirp joyfully
and let everything slide.
My lover, you gave me sweet words,
that I thought it can cloud my sour heart.
But as you retire into the backdrop of everyday life,
all that you promised
seems more unreal.
Another thing to wait for.
I am not good at waiting.
But I am good at thinking and preparing
for all that won’t happen.
Give me a menu of all tastes and vision
that are there in the world.
Let me decide the places we will live,
the weathers we will suffer.
Let me know of the heartache
that is not for my own sake.
Let me believe that what I want actually matters
even if it doesn’t.
The diluted versions of love
are not enough for me now.
I can only dream of grand heights.
I can only fly in a great fall.
Tell me a better lie before you leave.
A morning creeps up in my heart
and I think this is your doing.
But you do not know
and probably you never will
that any window that you open for me
will be another measure of my failure for me.
This beautiful world
can only keep me entertained for so long.
The positive attitude that everyone
keeps talking about
and eyes that I have heard
can put beauty onto everything it sees-
are not something that I have.
I think I had that once,
but that was so long ago
that I do not remember whether I liked it-
living that uncomplicated life,
not having to run away from people who do good.
When was it that a good person
started to seem the most dangerous person in my mind.
When was it that I learned
to break trust of others and still not feel regret.
When was it that I learned to silence my conscience so well.
I am not asking you all these
you obviously won’t have answers
but just because you do not have answer
to questions that I have watered all my life,
doesn’t mean that I will mock your vision.
Even if I cannot do what you do,
even if I cannot be what you are
it is not because they are worthless pursuits.
It is only because I do not have the strength to paint
sunrise on the ceilings of hearts made of starless night,
like you do.
Now that we are past the point to be bothered
and entertained with petty things,
and have moved on to greater ambitions
or heavier slogans.
The more dense our propaganda become,
the more we argue over the future we envision
for people who we assume to be clueless
about the perils that live among them-
I start having doubts
and maybe this is where my unravelling starts.
At the face of doubts
that have nothing to do with what I do
or how world works,
but the suspicion that maybe I am as clueless
as anyone else.
And maybe our enthusiasm for a better world
is what is driving it towards chaos.
What if the our judgement is clouded by the same
but stronger demons
that we want to exorcise from this world.
What if we are driving around in dense fog
and not even realizing it.
Or have we decided to go for it anyway
and count the casualties only when our heads clears.
Her head floats in the sea of sleep,
in the rising and falling waves of dreams,
in the island of blankets
that is kept warm only by her own body.
As the light in her room changes its hue,
the chill on her window
melts into the nothingness
that the day always brings.
Words and vision come to the surface of life
before she does.
She hears her voice
-“I hope this the day that makes
She dismisses it
as the ghosts that have overstayed.
Holding her falling parts in a life
crushed under the weight of its own hopes.
I didn’t see her pack her bag
but I knew it was definitely hers,
from the way she could drag it with such an ease.
The same ease with which
she dragged most things in her life.
Her face twisted and moved
till it found that smile
that said, “Ignore me, I’m happy”.
As she hailed her taxi,
I tried to count the days it would take
for me to give up too.
I counted the roads that must pass
before we do not have to think
about the depleting years in our hand
and lonely dreams in our diminishing vision.
I return to my unaffected neighborhood.
The success of my efforts to keep them ignorant
their narrow vision,
their inability to see me as I do,
their belief in me, the love they handout to me,
the children that look up at me-
making me feel smaller.
I have no option but to run
and once I start running there is no end to it,
there is nowhere I can stop.
Cause everything good in this world
reminds me of the unwanted anomaly I am.
Every dark emotion in face of others
becomes a part of mine.
Every day I barter with universe to keep me living,
borrowing time for this body,
one more light for myself.
One more body, one more happiness
(one more me) put to death
once I reach the dead end
that waits for me at the close of each day.
I have not been denied my dream.
But I was given too much time,
and too less conviction in myself.
I have been denied the vision
to see me for what I am,
for what I do.
We twist in the grip
of our own prejudices.
The valleys of our hatred
have become a part of our scars
that has a throbbing bitterness,
that impairs our vision
and numbs our heart.
Our lives divided by this fissure into
one half looking for a way out of hostility
and other half feeding on it.