I'm not looking for a forever with you, I'll find my forever in those little notes that you leave behind, the not so sticky ones that eventually find a home in the jar by the bedside, next to the alarm that gives up every morning trying to wake you up Only to be snoozed, religiously, yet it is set for the next day. I'll be happy with the stolen kisses and the cuddles under the sheet and the regular walk down the street, I'll hold your hand and rest my head on your shoulder and promise to not look for you in the people I meet and taint your memory. On days that I long for your presence, I'll order in your favourite chocolate chip ice cream and find comfort in the neatly folded shirt, placed just out of my reach. I'll find my forever in the words that were never said or just read between the lines of those that ring in my head. I am not looking for a forever with you I have found a forever within you.
There’s not a day that goes by without me wanting to be someone else. Anybody but me. I'm stuck here, in my head and it’s not a place you would want to be in. I spend hours and hours, praying. Hoping that somehow all of this would go away and I wouldn’t have to be in this hell hole anymore. I am trying to change, believe me, I am. Waking up every single day not being able to look at my own reflection. Questioning my very existence and still putting up an act of normalcy. That everything is fine. As though I didn’t contemplate and come up with a hundred and fifty scenarios of how better the lives of everyone would be if I just didn’t exist anymore. I am sorry. I truly am. I am so so sorry for being this.. this fucked up, for not being the person that you deserve. For not being enough. I am sorry. I started going to therapy because you deserve better, you deserve a better daughter, a better sibling, a better friend, a better partner and a better human. Believe me, I am trying to be at least half-decent of what I should be. On days I feel like giving up where I just can't see myself doing this anymore, I look for your kindness that while I am on this path, I still need your help. I ask you, Don’t let me give up? Not when I’ve come this far. I don’t deserve your kindness. I know I don’t. But because I wanna live and not just be stuck here. I wanna live a life like yours, for once, I just wanna live and be better and believe that someday I will be worthy of living.
I haven't learnt to let go yet, Is what my therapist had to say after an hour of our first session, That I look for you in all the people I meet,Hoping you wouldn’t abandon me this time,Hoping this version of you will not deceive me, To make me feel worthy of love without having to do anything and not spend hours and hours working on making this person happy, so that they don't let go, so that this void in me will not jeopardize my relationship.
I've never learnt how to communicate, because you were supposed to know right? Without me saying it out loud. You were supposed to be there. I was under your care, constantly looking for your approval, your love, trying to adapt your mannerisms. You were my hero. I was nine. That nine year old me is stuck in that abyss, Hoping you’d see me. Hoping you’d notice. How didn’t you hear my silent cries? How did you not know what was happening under your roof? Will you be able to forgive yourself if you found out? Will you be able to live with yourself?
Often, I used to wonder, if I ever ask you who you are, would you answer me with the same fervour as you always do? With specificity that leaves no room for speculation. Or would you be lost in the various vague and hazy interpretations trying to fetch out a piece you would relate to. You were a book I couldn't wait to flip the pages of. But, that was until I realized, you aren't just a tale. You're a story. One that's layered. One without a summary. Without even a synopsis. And I know, you're probably already shaking your head in denial, but what do I say? You see but you do not observe.
At the tender age of 5, you wanted to be Batman. Why? To save the world from "bad men", ofcourse. Being the next Eden Hazard overtook that little aspiring heart by the time you turned 12 and finally, with the dream of being the next Steve Jobs at 18, you kept moving forward. Now at 21, you tell me you hate desk jobs but what you hate even more is that you might very well be at the mercy of one. You tell me all this and more, one silent night, when I ask you to narrate to me a story. A story that's real. A story that's sad.
I wanted to tell you then. That maybe, you were meant to be the first you. That maybe, the story of you is meant to be different. And so many more cliched maybes' like that. But the risk of the over hard-nosed you, simply scoffing at my ever so starry-eyed self, refrained me from commiting that felony. The risk of your poetic realism, simply going ahead quoting Thoreau, and asking me to 'give you truth', held me back. And I'm glad it did. For I couldn't have know back then, the truth that I'm certain of now.
Maybe your story wouldn't be as you have imagined, and maybe, it wouldn't have many specs of glitter. But, it would be a story you haven't heard before. And for the little story lover residing inside you, one who adores solemn endings a bit more than joyous ones, the one who believes in cherishing the ride, that would, undeniably, be a reason worth more than anything to be thrilled about the journey much more than the epilogue. Coz darling, believe me, believe me when I say this, our story hasn't even begun yet and you already seem like my favorite kind of adventure.
It's 3 am and I'm wide awake thinking about the words you had softly whispered before boarding the midnight flight to be gone for 644 days. "Will you miss me?"
Will I miss you, you ask? "Miss" is a word too inadequate to sum up the feelings I now harbour for you. And it has started scaring me too. For along with them comes the helplessness, the powerlessness of me over myself and believe me I despise nothing more in the world than that state of stark vulnerability. You wonder why I love you and I wonder how to tell you that I don't see how anyone cannot. Your relentless efforts to see my one little smile or the way your arms secure me in a bustling crowd or be it the way you give me wings to let me freely be myself. How can I not be in love with that?
But ofcourse, I'll never let you know all of this. I'll laugh at all your promises with a raised eyebrow and call you an idiot for every "I love you" you utter. I'll mock you at every chance I get and roll my eyes everytime I catch you smiling at me.
You see, I prefer to be the rock you think I am. I cannot be a castle of glass. I'm terrified of shattering.
Through the fingers of your bloodstained palms scarlet shaded streaks of sand slip quickly into the sea and in the blink of an eye are swallowed by the waves in the distance, your face is a mere dot it is Morse code, a language I never quite was capable of mastering I do not see your flailing arms and when I learn that the tides washed you away, I try to convince myself that I couldn't have done anything to save you but my heart knows a lie when it sees one and my ears seem to detect traces of your whisper and some days I can almost convince myself that I saw you walking in the streets.
The candle must flicker if only to teach us what it means to live in shadow before it plunges us into this utter and complete darkness, a darkness that is but the prelude to a tragedy that was preordained years and years before we even set foot in this world and took our first breaths what can be chased is a dream, even if it is only held together by the loose threads of hope, what can be followed is a road that looks empty, yet holds the promises of the unknown Near the mountaintop, where the cold is biting and the snow merely a gorgeous figment of our imagination it is lonely, with the sort of quiet that makes your heart ache for human speech near the top, it is lonely and we must embrace the shadows and seek the light all the light we cannot see.
i break down when i overthink shallow thoughts yet i am drowning is my tank too tight or can i not breathe because i've forgotten how to i am trying to recall the basics inhale, exhale, choke and derail am i wearing too many colours or am i just confused because pink looks like blue and so does yellow and green or is it because i wear what i feel my skirt is too short and it is cold outside but the wind is not biting my thighs probably because i ignited my insides am i overthinking again or am i not thinking at all is this the right way of processing things or am i just punching a stonewall haven't i already been down this road earlier today since when have i been running in circles and avoiding dismay the answers are haunting so i break down again but i cannot cry a gulp in my throat and i am too weak to try so i go numb as i forget how to think inhale, exhale, choke and sink a dark room, and an abjected way of living shallow thoughts yet i am drowning
A scream is one of the most honest emotional expression that exists. It isn't imposed. It isn't culturally valued. Hell it makes you come out as a villain and immoral and selfish. Why would anyone take on all that blame. But people do. People scream. People scream when whispers won't work. When no one listens to what they speak. People scream when the chaos within suffoctaes and struggles to be released. Screaming isn't unnecessary. Screaming isn't fancy. Screaming is sheer helplessness... a final call for help. A final blurting, purging... before someone falls back to silence. Next time someone screams... don't close your ears. Let it ring. Maybe it'll break something inside you too. Something you've been holding inside glass boxes since the inception of your being.
You were supposed to be grateful and embrace all that I bring. You were supposed to bow and tell me, how kind and compassionate I've been. But you did nothing of that sort. You simply shrugged and returned, whatever I had brought. And it stabbed. Stabbed like a hundred daggers, deep in my self worth. I was denied validation. I wasn't prepared for a no. I wasn't used to hearing that word. I had prepared for it so much... practiced and perfected my ways... so I don't get hurt. It felt like denial of my existence. It felt like an insult. And I returned, with a hurricane rocking the bridge of sanity I had constructed between my confidence and insecurities. I ran over it, I don't remember how many times. I ran until I dropped and rolled over in the pond underneath. And in that murky water, I drowned my turbulence. I let go of the belief that I always knew what someone else needed. I washed my ego... I cleansed my pride. The water was scant... but it somehow erased the dust from my sight. I finally learned, that you simply didn't want what I believed you needed. And that doesn't make you ungrateful, neither does it make me foolish... as my mind misinterpreted.