At a bus stand in front of mall (that I have never been to) I learnt how to wait and how to live with disappointments without making a big deal of it.
In the bracket of an hour, I grew smaller than I ever thought I could be. “this is what love does to you, this is what love does to all of us”, all the voices in me lied. I was again weary of the love that I had chosen and the person I had trusted (“again” – the word that showed me the real reason why it would never work out).
I stood beside strangers on the crowded bus stand, awkwardly crying. I counted these not-so-scary strangers who were trying to become one skin. I pretended that I hated to be rained on as much as they did. I pretended that I didn’t mind their warmth, that my suspicious mind was not at work again.
Hours went by, empty roads faithfully stayed empty. I became more aware of the boundaries of my body I became aware of the person who would never come looking for me, who would look at the three hour long rain and still won’t wonder what happened to me.
We all stood there, pretending to be the only human in the group of zombies who had taken over a bus stand out of boredom, who stared at the wide road, the darkness beyond, and the emptiness behind as if their eyes were made to witness only this moment. I closed my eyes and hummed something, anything that could drown the presence of everyone who knew the sound of my breaking heart now.
At a bus stand, that could protect no one, we all dreamt of the worst- of the submerged road, a rain that will never stop, the cold that would take us down for days, children forever waiting, of the lightning we could hear but not see
of a love painlessly ending and a heart that shamelessly survived.
As I grew up, whom I hate changed constantly, it changed more frequently than my dream for future roles.
Maybe that’s why I was so particular about what I hate and I did it with fervor for the first few years.
But as time went on that hatred turned into just another silence – my refusal to speak with anyone who I wanted to hate.
And now it has transformed to hating people while I pretend to get along with them. Curling inside with anger at the same jokes that I feel compelled to laugh on.
It is not an easy thing to do but it is still easier than all the alternatives. (The alternatives are my nightmare.)
Because even though my hatred has grown over time, I also find it in me that space to accept people at their ugliest, not loving them, just accepting that they too can live here, be here and do what I hate, and telling myself that I have to be fine with that.
I have come to hate this side of me the most – this cowardice dressed as generosity and understanding, where I do nothing but smile as my blood, my ideals burn and collapse.
Maybe that’s why I have hated myself most, with constant determination, without doubt. This hatred is my only light – my anger at myself, for not doing enough, for taking up fearing my uncertain volatile feelings and views, my own voice, more than I fear this world.
i think this suits me most- to lose myself and yet look okay. god gave me a face that always looks okay even when i don’t want it to. (there have been only handful of days when i want to look as miserable i am.)
i wonder how it feels to say “do i look broken today yet? “i cried all night”. i have never cried at nights. i have never skipped a meal for my sorrow. i feed my heart too much fats and instant unhealthy happiness. i cut down my green trees and kill few birds, make a fresh trap that smiles through my gaping wound.
i live life the only way i can. look okay cause all parts of me are still working fine. god gave me a heart that doesn’t break the conventional way. i walk this world fearing this heart the most.
I covered up myself up- hiding the pieces, hiding the glue, hiding the knife close to my heart. There is too little time and so much to be disposed, so much has to be kept at the bottom of the stairs, under the sheets, under the hand that cupped my face so that no one could say with certainty whether I am laughing or crying or thinking about the hands that will never touch my face again or wondering why I can’t move away or keep away from mines and alligators and magma and my fearful heart and dark wells and palaces that never sink or get ruined completely and green roads of past and red destinations in my hands and love for colors that will not love me back and following the one with tearful eyes and the thoughts of some end, any end. All this extravagance, so that no one could see my see through my real feelings being eaten up by imaginary words and scenarios.
There is something beautiful about people who lose themselves when they lose someone. The layer of sanity that cracks, the heart that lets the past take over- is a feeling I would never understand. And all I do in such weather is wait. Wait for my coping mechanism to kick in, to take the decision away from me, and let me forget the meaning of loss.
I read another funeral in my lines of fate, another goodbye in the text not returned, another scene with poor lighting standing where I would be least hurt, saying words I do not mean, words that go well with my rock heart- staying true to my widely advertised image.
But I am not unfamiliar with wet cheeks and sleep that follows. I have cried for minor cuts and burning bruises, at the wrong weather, at the curbs on my freedom, in the argument that felt like a arrow I can’t take out. I have cried a bit more, a lot more than these small disruptions in life deserve.
I wonder if they would have broken me, would have shaken me like this if all whom I have lost were beside me. If everyone who hid their farewell in their lemon scented “love you” cards could stick by a little more, would I have cared for or cried for the rains that won’t stop?
As I scatter in wind the feelings that I dare not keep. I feel a soft kiss of understanding asking me to stop. If only I could.
It is time that I try hard to get my heart broken and pretend that it is happening for the first time,
to claim that I trusted blindly knowing it is not something I am capable of,
to fit my body awkwardly in the kind of life that people call ‘life’
to find words, to practice the new lingo that can make something about me relatable, so that my skin soaked in a tiring tale of sadness doesn’t make me an alien,
to fill me up again with pictures of parks, cafes, malls, and roads filled with people who supposedly like each other, if not a lot, then at least enough to not let their ailing self ruin the perfect moment, the perfect teamwork, the perfect promise. (Perfection that relies on someone else doesn’t sit well with me.)
It is time I find something new that I cannot be or cannot have before I lock myself up again for next hundred heart years.
So while I am out to find something to write about and hurt about miss me my cell, pray for me. I am afraid that once I am surrounded by all that I have learned not to want, I might start to hope again. I might slip again. I might forget to see the distance that I carry in me and get disappointed by the doors that I can’t reach.
i try to sleep, to forget the pain near my spine, to forget all the hours in front of me that i have no use of. i look at my palm from near and from as far as my hands can extend. i notice how my hands have changed. do i like it better now? i wonder if it possible to like anything about my body now. i remember once deciding not to at least hate this skin that has use for everyone but not to me. i remember saying “as long as it makes you happy” at the same time thinking “i don’t think you care for my happiness”. i stop myself from finding more things that make me confused or miserable. i unlock my phone. it’s 8 already- more and more notifications, …5GB extra..Alert:You have spent… …has added a new post…added a new story airplane mode, the notifications continue to pile up in my head- all the words that i will never get to see that i always expected even when i knew i shouldn’t, it has been long……sorry, for making you feel alone… today i saw something and was reminded of you. even though we are not together, it is not your fault… thank you for being there for me……it must have been tough… don’t hurt yourself i feel smaller knowing that even the words i want are only words of consolation, just confirmation that i am not the worst. i look at my hands again and wonder if my hatred for myself colors my skin. is that how everyone gets know that i don’t have the courage to ask for fair, for loyalty, for answers? is that how i look? someone who doesn’t have the voice to ask anything anymore.
Was it 5 years ago, or 6 that we all sat together looking at the bright beginning of another series of setbacks that we were becoming. The coldness of the wood, the ruffle of papers, the moment before we learned to truly hate ourselves.
I miss that.
As we stood waiting in line for something to take away everything we were just beginning to see, I remember thinking, “I wish I could spend my youth here. In this moment, with these people. I am nothing to them, they are nothing to me. But we are good for each other. This can never be made again.” At that moment I knew they will make my heart ache for a long time.
In the years that followed I saw them, the people who carried the faces of the ones I liked enough not to love. “What’s wrong?” I wanted to ask them but all I could do was smile and let my smile tell them “I will see you for what you were. At least that I can do for you. The beauty of your innocence and hope I will remember it forever.”
I prod and push the glass slowly, carefully to the edge of the table, where your glass stands. At the edge where you place your suitcase, where you always tie your laces once again just to be sure.
That is the place you tell me to love when you think I might lend something of me to keep such place alive, to keep you warm while you keep the door open like the way the you like them to be.
This is the place you tell me to forget when the color of my skin doesn’t match the color of your new sky, when your new birds keep singing songs of ‘soulmates’ with better specification when it becomes your new caller tune, when you think of the best version of your life. You think of that too often, quite loudly for me to really forget anything.
This is all I remember of you:
“i never thought you were weak enough to need anyone or anything.” “i thought you were wise enough, i thought you were better than your gender.“ “call me. meet me. i am feeling down.“ “call me. meet me. listen to me, no one else does. only you have ever cared.“ “call me. meet me. i want us to end.“ “you are too much for me. you are too little in the eyes of anyone in this world.“ “you are so close to having my fickle demanding unfair love, why do you ruin everything by being yourself. i would have loved you for 2 more years, if you were not messed up.“
When I think of the glasses, of my life, of everything that I dangerously left at the edges just to be your equal, just to make sense of you- I am glad I have claimed back my madness instead of trying to understand yours. I am glad I do not have to live my life compensating for your weakness, calling it love.
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.