Ages ago, I did a course of 48 hours on saving people (as if saving was that easy). There were lots of questions, none that I could answer truthfully. I sat through confessions, lot of confessions. I sat there distancing myself from everything I had the potential to be- the one who clutched her handkerchief too tight, the one whose gaze seems like a hammer, itching to crush and break. And like the pathetic person I am, I only thought “Where should I run to now?”
I would return to a sad room to sleep (thank god it was never to be my home), I would wake up and find myself staring at slideshows that I tried hard not to see or find myself cooking up stories of life that won’t put me on that stage, won’t sound like a cry.
“Is this how this saving business would continue to be?”, I wondered as I left those 48 hours behind. “Is this all I can do?”, I asked myself as I finally wept for hours.
you and the me that i was, that you hated once, but not as much what i am right now
you and your rough sketch of me that looks like bits and pieces of your past lovers
you and your ticking clock, both waiting for me to change
you and you habit of making me wait, of walking out on me
you and your empty seat that you have already forgotten
you with your air of arrogance that i pretend not to see for the sake of loving you
you and your smile that sometimes (most of the times) have nothing to do with me
you and your calls out of blue, calling me love, calling me heartless, throwing me away and calling me back,
you and your words, your voice always asking for more
you and your insistence of loving in past and hating in present
you and your love that wants never to be associated with me
you and your cruelty of always forgetting (only) me, forgetting the hurt you cause
you asking me to love you back in spite of all, asking me to speak only in sweet words, never asking me how i made it through the pain you gave me last time, never wondering what do i want out of this love, that has no place for me
The trees are alive today. They ask me to sing them to sleep for the last time. I sing for hours but they refuse to close their eyes.
They ask me how I have been, not waiting for my answer, in one breath they ask about the words they don’t understand, ask me about the days I do not remember anything about (there are so many days I have no memory of while I can’t forget the days I really want to forget), about the rain that has left us long ago.
Their love for this world that they do not understand- makes me jealous, makes me wonder, if I could love also this world as much as I want to if I knew a little less, if I gave up this human heart that knows nothing but to steal and plead, to take away and bleed. But if I knew how to give up myself for my greater good, I would have done so long ago.
I can only stay selfish, act better than what I am, sing songs to the trees that will soon be killed for my sake.
I think of the clothes that are too tight or too loose for me, of my skin that doesn’t like me the way it used to. How the mirrors in my home are hidden by the growing towers of books. I wonder what this says about me? I think of the fear that I feel when I am alone, the fear that I feel when I walk into happiness. I think of the kinds of fear that fill my heart. I count them for a long time but nothing happens when I finish counting. I wonder if knowing myself is really the first step to solving my life. Do I want anything to be solved? I count the people that who no longer speak to me and half way through I remember that it was me who had thrown them away first. Silence is my weapon, not theirs. I realize I need to always hold a grudge against someone to live with strength. I wonder when this strength became so important to me. I wonder when this love that felt like a lemonade in summer actually became a commercialized product with an expiry date stamped on it before it even reaches our hands. I think of my skin by which I am stuck to a world like this. I wonder why I pretend to be better than this world by saying such stuff? Why am I so into acting all deep and philosophical? I wonder why I love to call myself broken even though I hate to be seen so? Don’t misunderstand me. I do not want answers. Answers are painful and pointless, answers are a tasteless end to the struggle that otherwise makes my heart bleed colors.
There is a wall of flowers before her. She looks at it as if they are a softer kind of firework, a firework in reverse, the colors leaving the petals, crawling deep into itself, leaving the color of the inevitable sad ending that Nature always ends up falling for, after a series of boys who lied to her about a forever in their mellow green kisses.
A lesson on subtraction for a girl trying to learn about the reasons and the ways a void like hers is created.
please don’t ask me how my friend is doing. we broke up. we broke up the most decent way friends can break up. without deceit, without betrayal, without cruel words or bloody knife on our backs, without stories to hurt each other with, without attempts to patch up things, without deleting each other’s number that we never bothered to memorize. i do not remember her till someone says her name and when the sound of her name finds me through a stranger’s lips, i do not feel bitterness. i not miss her. a part of my heart is glad that life didn’t turn her my enemy but a part of me wonders how she turned out to be nothing in my life. when i see facebook notifications with her name, when i get a reminder of her birthday, when she calls me up once in a blue moon to ask a favor for “her friend” without bothering to ask how i have been, what is it that am i supposed to feel? i think it should hurt in some way. i am waiting for it to hurt. i am waiting to realize the meaning of this loss. i am waiting for the day I miss her. i want to miss her so much.
If you were to find a love that could make you complete, I hope you find it with me. I hope I become better before you start looking for this love. So that being myself won’t mean being cruel and uncaring. So that loving me won’t be a sacrifice.
I want to have you without breaking you and without breaking me. But how often does life work out like that.
When you became the question of my life, all I could do was hope because what I had was not enough for myself. What if you were to ask me something that would remind me of my poverty?
I am afraid that this is what you are meant to do in my life- remind me again and again that I am lacking in so many ways.
But all I can do is try try to become someone who has lesser faults. Because giving you up is not something that I would ever want. But some nights I wonder how long will I last before I collapse under the weight of your wants and mine.
beauty may be only skin deep but lack of it goes deeper than that. so deep that you end up learning to want things that you wouldn’t otherwise even think about. i wish i could remember every face that was surprised to know that i am okay with looking older than i am, surprised that i do not want to exorcise fats especially when i have got so much of it. every morning i wake up they hover over me like faceless shadows with black markers, drawing over my body showing me all that is wrong, giving me tips so that i can become easy to look at, hiding their superficiality under the wraps of concern, whispering how thick-skinned i am when i don’t listen and wondering what is wrong with the ones who love me. it made me wonder that maybe going under the knife wouldn’t be as bad as being smeared black by markers. that maybe i am supposed to love myself only after the world approves of the ‘me’ that i want to love. i would have understood if they cared, if they actually meant good, but they don’t because they know nothing more than my name and they say my name only with heart-breaking adjectives and assumptions. i want to say they are wrong, but i have suffered their gaze for so long that sometimes i end up sharing their hatred of me, of what they see. there are days that i obsess over a passing comment. there are days i beat up myself for being like this. i starve and fail, i try to get over their words and fail, i try to hate myself and fail. i want to say it doesn’t matter but it does because i am tiring myself out by trying to see something good in me, by apologizing to myself, by trying to save my heart while they burn my body in the woods.
I bask in the sunlight of borrowed memory. I grieve in the arms of your dying words. I find another piece of myself to send you away with and I wonder why I feel empty even though you have given me your all.
The tree looked at his friend through the net of blooming flowers at his forlorn form, at the new desert on his skin. Recalling his own autumn that is gone and will come again and wondered what is this friendship, that makes them smile at each other even when the same season decorates one with melting flowers of life and robs other of all the colors it had.