My love was sitting in the corner of my heart, waiting for someone. Should I open it like window just like I have in my home, let the air pass in. But, thought what if it is more than wind, a hurricane of air.
It will eventually destroy everything.
Maybe, that's what love does to us. Ruins everything even when we never wanted anything instead of just love. But, is it possible to get love in honor of the same four-lettered word? Love. We put up all insecurities on one side and love the person wholehearted. I still play with those words you left beside me when I fell asleep, dreaming about the future we both hold someday. I love you, so easy to spell and hard to resist when we are into someone.
I'm not blaming you for anything or any cause you made to me, but it's just I'm afraid that will I ever repeat those words to someone whom I will fall someday. You did walk away from my life, or even I may have pushed you away from my life. But the footprints of memories and definitions to define what love is still a mystery to solve. Each day I wake up with a dream of you and me with another story to end when I wake up to all my senses, and me waiting for the day when I will stop those things.
You made me feel how unworthy I'm of love. Maybe, it is more of a dream to me with just you. A mystery that makes no sense what exactly happened when you love.
This is the reason, Mirakee is losing people. Is this the same platform where I used to have fun and learn. People promoting there anthology and asking for money scam. If people are interested they will come forward no need to put up such things in comments. Please tag @mirakee as much as you can & repost it. ONLY IF YOU WANT TO, NO FORCE.
The night is beautiful and I dearly miss my best friend. I just felt like saying that. *smiles*
Grandpa was a lot of things. But of all the things he was, he was a storyteller at his best, at his happiest. He'd live for stories, my grandpa. Living in a country house looking out at rows and rows of maize shooting up from the ground, he and I would sit on the steps on the porch, listening to the sound of farmers in the field, of wanton birds paying no heed to scarecrows and distant households. On Sundays, there'd be the musical ring of the ice-cream truck in the distance. We'd always get the orange popsicle not just because it was the cheapest, it was also Grandpa's favourite colour. I'd always ask him to tell me the story of why it was. And he'd always say. Sunset, Ellie. Sunset and your grandmother. She loved the flowers like her own children. She took weeks to grow them, watering them every evening, chipping off caterpillars and weeds. There were these flowers that she looked at the most affectionately. Right there, underneath the window ledge. A patch of calendulas. Orange reminds me of my Trudy and her calendulas.
Grandpa had always been my favourite person. Even now, half a country away, I could hear his voice beside me as I sat staring at the screen, feeling parched off words. You'd think stories would come naturally to me. I write for a living, after all. But for every story, I had to go down a mine and dig in. Sometimes, I'd be the canary that'd die right there in the depths of the mine, looking for a story, getting lost in the hollows. On those days I'd hear Grandpa say "Ellie, my darling girl, remember that wherever you go, you carry stories with you. Everyone does, really. But the ones who retell them are the ones who live forever." Grandpa always had stories. He always believed and made me believe that I could be a storyteller. As for me, I didn't want to live forever. I just wanted to pay my rents. So that's what I did. Scraped stories that paid the rent. Trying to keep the canary alive.
You don't know all the things that your mind holds until it's being forced to close like an overstuffed briefcase. Despite being a writer, I'd always been a bit of a cynic. But the thing about cynics is that we're all just one spell of magic away from believing. For me, this magic spell came in the robe of a road accident that took my life. Well nearly.
You know there's this thing that parallels death and black holes. Nobody quite knows what it feels like. Even when it's upon you staring in the eye. You know the moments before. Not the during or the after. Whatever gets close enough to peek, never gets to turn around. Maybe this is why I'll never be able to write a story about death, or afterlife. And this isn't one about it. What this is about is life. All the lives inside me.
They say I was gone for days. They say grandpa and Jamie stayed up all night fearing they'd miss a moment, one moment of life, one flash of movement, my eyes, my fingers. That's when it happened. Through the blackness in my mind, I heard a voice. Unlike what happens in stories, it wasn't Grandpa's voice, reaching out to me through the dark, trying to haul me back into consciousness. It was a voice I recognised. And when the blackness faded into mist and the mist into clarity, I found a little girl in dungarees, pigtails hanging on both sides, with teeth that grew on each other like vines proudly on display as she grinned wide. I realised with a shock it was me. Ellie had a tube of toothpaste clutched behind her back as mum went on and on about how terrible it was to suck whole tubes of toothpaste. "For goodness'sake Ellie. It's not even chocolate!" I heard my mother's voice, both in my memory and in this film playing out in my mind. "But mum, I like how sweet and cold it feels!" I grinned. I don't know how my mother brought up a kid like me and still had the courage to have Jamie.
The picture fades and the voices garble up into another. The television in the background. And a man, sunburnt skin and grey eyes, lying on his front watching the news reader go on about how the rains would be late again this year. Dad buries his face in the pillow. Little Ellie climbs on top of the bed and does what she knows Dad loves. She takes off her socks and gingerly, stretching out her hand to the wall for support, steps on Dad's sore back. Dad sighs. "You gonna have to wait for your shoes, sugar. The corn won't grow without rain." Ellie kept on stepping carefully on his back with her little feet. Later, in the evening, they played hide-and-seek until dinner. After all, hide-and-seek was best barefoot, wasn't it?
I saw Ellie and Grandpa tip toeing in the middle of the night and lick jam off jars, while trying to be as quiet while slurping as they could. I saw Jamie and Ellie dressed up as Dora and Boots on Halloween as they ran about from door to door tricking-and-treating. I saw Ellie massage mum's foot on the porch swing. I saw Grandpa and Ellie water the garden, and the calendulas. I saw Ellie run between the bedsheets hung out in the sun to dry as they flailed about in the air. I heard mum's laugh ring through the air.
And then I saw Ellie and Grandpa on the porch. Ellie had her feet sticking out in the sun, the rest of her in the shade. Grandpa was talking between popping oranges in his mouth "Ellie. Wherever you go in this world, remember that as long as you take yourself, you'll never be alone. As long as you take yourself, you'll always have stories. And as long as you have stories, you'll always be alive. Leaves fall, flowers wilt, the sun goes down. But souls and stories stay forever. Let your stories find you, and you'll never be lost."
And that is how, in the midst of the blackness I had been plunged into, one that I had been in for days, I realised how I was never without stories. How Ellie and Grandpa and Jaime and mum and dad, every story I ever lived, every person I ever was, every Ellie that existed were all trying to keep me alive.
And just like that one moment that played in my mind while I was in the abyss, when Ellie had fallen asleep in the closet trying to hide from the monster under her bed, and come out after Jaime and dad called on for hours, I woke up. I woke up to Grandpa and Jaime and Dad all huddled up around me. I woke up to the beautiful emotion on their faces, one that you have when you can see the outline of your home in the distance after a long day. I woke up to all the stories, and all the lives I had ever lived. And I realised, I wasn't ever going to die. After all, I was finally, a storyteller.
@hoshi I don't know what I'd do if not for you. Thank you for making me write again.
@allbymyself It's been ages, Avitaj. AGES. I haven't done this in so long. How old are we?
@divokost When are you going to come here? Come here already! I miss you. Hobbit wants you here.
That's the original picture of where I sit in my residential society. Yes, it's a quite dark place to sit, but it masks my sadness, hides my tears and life's biggest fears. It knows how to embrace me with love, when I sit there. I cry, sometimes for hours in the evening, but it never made me feel that I should just hide or run away from what I feel, it accepts me for who I am, and how I feel.
This is my first poem:
That's my corner, With it I share everything that makes me sad, It never judges me, Never asks me why. Hell no, it doesn't blame me, And this, I can't deny.
For the people that know me, May not believe, That even a person like me can cry, When you meet me, you'll know why. I'll cheer you up with my smile, Will ask about your work and life, Joke on all the things and the moments we spent, You won't realise when the time passed away, That you need to get back home.
That's where people don't know, Yes, nobody knows, The storm inside me, Scarring my heart, Burning me on the inside, Eating me, making me weak. Intangible as hell, The intensity of it, oh, i couldn't tell.
It doesn't feel anything for me, It just wants me to feel that I'm all alone. And there can be no one for me, But the storm came after the happiness left. Only I know how the happiness felt, So I take a deep breath, let the storm pass away, And if it never passes, I don't care anyway.
Because I'm sure someday, My happiness will return, Till then I know I have to burn, It's a slow burn. I don't know when it'll stop, It's already over the top. Until my happiness returns, I know I can survive (maybe), As I have to learned to live with a storm inside me, I'm sure you won't feel a thing, when you meet me.
Don't we have a corner too? Where we can cry just like we want to, do let me know in the comments if you have a corner, and if you're comfortable sharing why you use it, that's great, because we here are doing this for a better world. I'm sure many people would be motivated by your experience to share theirs and lessen the burden in their hearts. I felt good, you will feel good and let's make other feel good about it too. Feeling sad and depressed isn't a problem, it's a phase. A phase that you can come out of. Share it with people, talk about it, read about it, and trust me, you'll be out of it! Have a blessed day!
I thought of writing it in a poetic form with rhyme schemes, but I'm literally new to writing. So bear with my rhyming in the poem/piece/whatever-you-want-to-call-it.
You can message me on Instagram if you have any suggestions, link is in the bio, and yes, I'll try to improve next time. Meanwhile you can follow me if you like the content, because I'm gonna be grinding till I'm out of words!
I know it's not easy, but some things are meant to be tough. It's easy to be held in your arms, it'll never be easy to let go.
Someday, when you are in a foreign land, walking on an empty road on a night darker than the pool of pain brimming in your eyes, you'll come across an ice cream shop, and it'll remind you of my taste in your mouth and you'd order my favourite flavour and all voids that the distance between us created in your soul, will be filled in with the first lick, and the foreign land will begin to smell like home.
Someday, when you are seated on a rusted bench in a crowded park, and the noise would be ringing in your ears, you'll recall the moments when we both went silent over phonecalls, just listening to each other breathe. And at that moment, with all the people sticking against each other, hovering around you, the world will feel empty.
Someday, when you are laying under covers, struggling to find the remote and watch something on the weekend, your eyes will go towards the window, and my address would flashback in your mind, my flesh would reflect before your eyes, and the bed covers would start to feel cold.
Someday, when someone asks you out for a cup of coffee and compliment you on your lovely smile, you'll think of my last text to you that morning, and how they were the only words that could paint crimson across your cheeks. And when you say yes and are seated with her in the most alight and beautiful cafe on the block, your eyes would look for an ill-lit street covered with dirt, and how you want to cry, but the person who would wipe your tears would not be in front of you.
Someday, I am going to be yours, and you're going to be mine, but we still wouldn't be us, and everything that came alive with us being together will again begin to die.
"It's been long, hasn't it? Come sit, the snow is melting today, the sun is up high. The porch already has a chair set out for you. "
"I'll put on the pot, some biscuits too?"
"Good lad, though I can't even begin to fathom how you drink it without sugar. Why, when I was your age, I used to adore the intoxicating sweet taste."
"You don't like Christmas, do you lad? For I can't fathom any other reason for you to be here on such a wonderful day, away from your family."
"I gathered as much, fighting will get you nowhere lad. Come, listen, I'll tell you a story about time, Christmas and trees. There's a reason why our entire generation and the god up above loves this festival."
"Come on now! Don't make the face, here, take a bite from the jam biscuit and settle in."
"The truth about time, lad, is that it passes. It doesn't matter how hard you try to clench your fingers around it, it'll always slip through, letting you be just a passerby."
"Lad, I wish I could see ghosts, I wish I could relive those old memories again. I know, I know that you are here, yet, as time keeps passing by, even you'll move on. Everyone has."
"Sixty years ago, I decorated my first Christmas tree. It was along with Annie and Josh. Three of us, barely entering double digits, using various chairs and cushions to hang shiny decorations from a humongous tree."
"No need to scoff, lad. We were kids, enjoying the first time we got that privilege. It was a bad time, war was dragging on and the entire nation was floundering. Christmas time seemed like a bleak ray of hope back then, providing a reason to hold on and not let go."
"Isn't that enchanting? Just holding on and not letting go? A promise to yourself, for everything. Love. Life. Relationships. It comes at a cost, of course, but it ends up being so beautiful."
"Biscuits? Tea? Anything else, lad?"
"Where was I? Ah. Yes. The Christmas tree."
"Do you know of the beautiful feeling budding up in your heart when you come back home? That's what it was for us. It was our bonds pushing us close together, clutching on and just collecting our little pieces of magic."
"Needless to say, we were very bad at decorating. There had been a massive fight over candycanes, Annie and I wanted it at the top, whereas Josh wanted to hoard it all up."
"Ah, don't grin now. Even though we fought, it was a good natured one, lad. We decorated the tree with chuckles, squabbles and memories."
"It was bad, the candycanes ended up on one side, with all the shiny red baubles surrounding them like a lion's mane. It wasn't good, nor could it be called beautiful."
"But lad, it was a brief, fleeting moment of peace, warmth and love. That's what Christmas was for us. A small, weird time to just hope, hold on and wait for the best."
"I know that you like the stars, claiming they make you brave. Christmas is like that for many of us, lad. It's full of small rituals, making our heart feel brave again."
"It's us, all of us, allowing ourselves to love a little more, to trust a little more."
"Even now, lad, I wish I had the ghosts of my family here, the ghost of Annie and Jack. Someone, anyone to sit with me on this beautiful day. They can't be here tonight, and I have made my peace with that. They'll live forever in me, and I'll decorate a small tree in the evening. For us."
"If you don't want to go back, join me for it. Love with reckless abandon, lad. You'll never regret your life if you do."
"My shoulders are warm now, I hope your soul is too. So, what will you do?"
"Ah. Going back to your family? That's good, lad. That's good. Give them a hug from me. Christmas is a time to be with family. I'll be here. I'll be here. Go on now. Don't be a stranger now."
" Is it that easy for me to embarrass you ? ", he asks staring at me. " No " , I reply almost trying to avoid an eye contact. " But I just did thrice " , he says giggling.
That's when my city first witnessed how those tweety eyelashes of yours droop down half closing your window of gazes and those bunny teeths flash behind your pink hills when you laugh. In all my silent lanes of mind I was trying to find perfect metaphors for a man who travelled miles to travel my mind.
" Ah, there's Dominos even in your city " he exclaims smirking to get his favourite sarcastic reaction from me. " That's not a good one ", I reply to his surprise. " Why " " The good ones are in Mumbai " " No, the best ones are in Mumbai " and he breaks into laughter still staring at me.
Do I not keep sarcasms at my tongue tip ! And here I was letting you win. Like my smartness and sanity, even the period cramps went on a vacation the moment you entered my city. And I had walked to meet you like a river who awaits ages to meet the sea. Yet I intended not to reveal how when you get busy looking at my city, I quickly stare at you and in no time I look away as your eyes turn to me.
" I don't usually like tea but this is really good " " Are people in Mumbai not good in making tea ? " , finally trying to be sarcastic I ask. " They are. I am amazed that even people in your city know how to make it " he says giggling again. " Come on , I am waiting for a sarcasm " he adds. But I keep quiet and smile.
Did I walk out of my room today to fail in conversations. Maybe yes. But some failures can make you smile like an insane child each time you recall them. And I am jotting this down to celebrate it like victory and to celebrate you like poetry.