Things can get pretty ugly when you're in love with the idea of being in love. Let me tell you the truth about the truth, it's the most alive lie, which can hurt you so deeply.
I don't understand this, the way I'm letting my own feelings hurting me for the person who has gone from the story of an incomplete ending.
Most of the days, I will wait for things to go wrong and hurt myself to wake me up from the delusion of living myself the way I want.
I learned people never changed it's our experience which make our thoughts evolve, a person always stays the same. The person can be dead but the emotions of deep sadness leaves behind in the heart of others can't go.
I am feeling lost, lost in this big world of isolation, and I don't know how to live there anymore. Loneliness can be dangerous, once you embrace that world you won't care to let anyone in.
Our shallowness is covered, with a very thick layer of happy smile. I have this feeling, I don't know how to explain it, it's like a melody of a song which makes you feel good and scared at the same time.
on most days i don't write but every time i do, i kill something inside.
i fear my words so i avoid facing them on paper and choose to cry them out as i feel them trickle down wondering if muffled sobs are as satisfying as screams typed in capitals, out of words that don't add up but echo of my disparity.
i talk but i don't say things assuming that the world doesn't contain the heart to listen to the feelings that i don't have the voice for lowkey hoping for one heart to hear me out.
so i let my art run astray waiting for it to bring back words as souvenirs from places that reek of estrangement and don't make me feel as less of a human
but whenever these words add up a fear comes to life sentences start making sense and i let out a sigh and cry holding the nib against my neck mourning every reason as to why i dont write because every time i do i kill my voice inside wishing if it could have just talked me through and made things right
How do you tell someone that you want to die? Would you write few lines on a white sheet, ink stained against your skin or would you leave without a word?
On a cold December night when no one is talking, when the world is silent that you can hear yourself clearly for the first time in a while. Or maybe on an autumn eve when the sky bleeds away into the ocean for the last time. A tranquil kind of solitude.
It isn't sad, death is death, an end is an end. Nothing more nothing less. Yet, we carry certain things that don't belong to us a little longer than we are supposed to. Like, stories of someone that made you smile for no reason on a night like this.
Do you think about death too? I wonder.
I have learned that we have to make peace with the mortality, the fragility of existing. One day you're here and then you're not. But, there is happiness, around the edges of your favorite book that you keep coming back to, warmth around the curves of someone that made you feel like something more than this, this mere existence where you struggle to wake up.
I think what makes life worth living is death, the unpredictability of existence. You don't know when the story ends, you don't know the destination but you walk through days with a hope that there is a tomorrow to wake up to. It could be your brain playing tricks on you yet it feels so real, feels so personal.
I think when we comprehend this unpredictability, we will realize how important every moment makes you feel because maybe this moment is all there is. You don't know if this moment is your last, the last kiss, a hug, the last poem that you're ever going to write, last meal, last conversation, the last smile, the last moment where you could feel the life. A few moments on this tiny planet, alone but never lonely.
I know people but I don't. It's a contradiction. Maybe the right thing to say is, I know part of them, some pieces from broken conversations that I can barely remember. I wonder they know about me too.
when i was in my early teens i came across this feeling called love. a feeling that can make or break a person because nobody told me it could be rough. - i would imagine the future in which i was in love a future in which i was truly glad. a future in which someone's happiness would be me and with my jokes i would never let her be sad. - i would imagine waking up next to her just to feel an angel love me for i was. someone who would listen to me and love me without any ulterior reason, without any ulterior cause. - i would imagine cooking dinner with her and laughing at some silly inside joke. someone who would stick by me no matter what rich, hungry or broke. - i would imagine holding her hands every time we went out just to show everyone that i was the luckiest man in the world. and the woman next to me was no ordinary but someone who had absolutely made my world twirl. - i would imagine loving her to bits giving her all the love in my coffers. and not even thinking about anything else but to put out everything i could offer. - but i do not know where it all went away when did i completely forget how to love? when did this void in my heart became so big that all my affection I had it shoved. - i question myself everyday if i will ever find someone to love me, to listen to me, to hold me through thick and thin. or if settling is the only option for everyone and love love is just a deception from some writer's bin. - it's said we come alone, we go alone so is love a complete myth? or do connections mean anything at all and we only love when we see fit? - maybe this is what growing up is all about being alone and having only pillows to cry. and so i sit here asking myself the question when did the hopeless romantic in me die?
I am broken dream of a mother in her late 50's who sings herself to sleep every night. She sings lullabies of girls who lived brave shaming the patriarchy of her beloved. And yet unknown of how I sit cowardly with scars on hands and broken tongue unable to speak anything but dumb love.
I drape 30 yards of what they call sacred which was only meant to be abuse. I am pale flesh of her blood and genes that flow within, that screams every night of nothing but failure. I store hopes and smiles from the strangers outside and place them down my spine wishing they'd grow back the wings he cut off. I am child screeching at the windowpane every night dreaming how peaceful it would be to wake up dead draped around those same sheets he made love to me last night. I have lived and relived death between his blood and my screams a thousand times more than you'd imagine.
I am sorry Ma, I am not the same daughter you raised. Who outspoke her dad and sneaked out late every night. Who dreamed not to conquer the whole world but live with hopes she'd one day.
I am nothing but the flesh of blood and pain with a broken heart and soul which hides behind those smiles.
Light leaks from the leaves of the sugar apple trees after feasting on fresh fruits and touches the morning petrichor sungazing on the ground. The holiday lights snore unapologetically as the hustle and bustle of the busy city is added as a preservative in the jar of January juice being served on the first Sunday of the calendar year.
Twenty minutes have already passed in the hunting of the novel I left unread on Pg 243 last night. I am wandering helplessly in the woodland of my house with arrows shooting from my eyes, hitting on the kladeoscopic titles resting on the bookshelf and weapons oozing out of my hands, digging the scattered clothes and littered table. Giggles slice the silence in the air and crash on my ears. I peep out of the window in the garden to trace the source of its origin.
Winter wearing blue sunglasses is sunbathing while resting comfortably on the chaise longue. Laughing hysterically with joy, holding a hot mug of coffee in one hand while other clutched on the novel which was the treasure of my hunt. I cannot calm the fury down while screaming it's name.