I remember dog days and the sweat on my back as the cotton my clothes clung to it. Tell me, how many of these stars are sun? Whether I can burn my midnight with their incandescence?
I say I remember dog days and the sticky popsicle dribbling down my hand till my fingers turned orange and the ice turned to water and games I played on the ground by the temple continued the next day.
These days I feel like there is a stone set on my tongue which I can't throw out nor swallow it. It gets caught in my throat and I feel so fragile under its weight. My loneliness feels like a tar wrapping me in its thick embrace. I don't know how to hug back. I have been trying to write about its shape and how it looks and sometimes it gets a page long and other times the blank page looks at me with half-lidded eyes.
I'm trying to remember people so that I can remember me. The incessant bounce of my leg as I try to focus, drifts me away till I drown everything else but the story of these fictional people who burn bright and bright and bright. And by the time I come back, the screen in my front is utter black. These days I'm afraid of this silence, you see.
I bite my tongue to choke down the crudeness that I apparently have. I am relieved when the bathroom mirror is fogged. The evening is calmer. Cooler. My skin, dryer.
I try to feel the heat from that incandescence I said I don't have. I sleep too much. I half-heartedly smile as I see the familiar grey where the orange and blue meet. I see the bugs flying in the distance which I thought have gone way.
I see the lone star shining. I chuckle and say to myself, “Kar lenge.”
//sometimes my train of thoughts give me a whiplash too. //
We are both witches on a gravel road under a sunny afternoon. This building murmurs the prayers we sigh with our eyes shut tight in the morning. Our God is different now but there are strings which criss-cross and knot themselves around our fingertips. The leaves under our feet are golden and swirl around the bark of these brown trees, hopping from one bench to another. You whisper a spell and I believe in magic even though I don't know what it is. You are my dusk flowing in autumn winds like the smell of Halloween. These days I wonder how stars would taste like; whether I'll glow if I would swallow one. You worship the moon and so I try to memorise her movements. She knows too much history about you and I get jealous. We are ten again and you tell me a story and I listen. You close your eyes and take me to a place which I'll forget after a decade.
On some days hiding in corners is a hard thing because here's your body expanding and trial rooms are caves which echo my reflection with a physics which I don't know how to not let it pierce my heart.
My corners unfurl themselves into a wider place and I step out to see that my summer days have shortened into a loop where my mother carries a guilt which I tell her to shrug down while my chest clenches with a pain of carrying a weight which I don't even know is my to carry. But you know, that's what happens when your reality takes away something from you which you don't know how to shape—leaving stains on your fingertips and a smell whose nostalgia will weigh you down on some days.
Sometimes (read: most) I hide myself in second person and let others carry my story. I drop down the I from I love you or I miss you because the vulnerability leaves me a bit too open than I'm ready to be. Other times I take my comfort character and see the world through his eyes and let him live my memories. Some days I'm a walk on a long road with a laughter and songs and silly dances which I don't remember because hey my heart is cold. So, do tell me what do I do with these frozen moments stitched to my heart?
There are nights when I look above and realise that once you start familiarising with the map of the sky, it gets hard to ignore the urge to know the cities and continents of it. Some days I laugh at this. Other days I want to forget the constellations and just look at the sky like I am staring at anonymity—just billion little stars and galaxies looking at me back knowing nothing about me.
My skin glows red when this itch inside of me crawls all over and if I am saying it poetically, it is just me wondering where my words go when I am not pressing the keys with my fingertips shuddering in the vibration. Otherwise, it's an allergy which I can't place.
Sometimes I miss the thrill of my incoherent outpour on this glowing screen.
Tell me where do we go when from the spaces between your bones, you find dreams and fears placed tenderly? Or how in the back of your mind there are echoes of the songs you used to sing.
These desert skies split apart when the rain stops and sometimes in the dusk it looks like the clouds are on fire while the land is still overcoming from the humid kisses. My heart is still trying to understand the shape of the skyline of my soul because when I look above, I imagine these constellations telling me their stories. The other side knows all too well how these are nothing but gases burning and glowing.
What I am trying to say is that I too am sometimes split apart like my desert skies. In this heat which I am cradled in, I have learned to bloom and so I laugh when July comes but when August steps her toe in this incoming pool, sending ripples across with her touch, I find my eyes blurry and my lips whispering to her to be kind to me.
Your own words sometimes eat you up; crawling onto your throat from inside, Stinging your skin at your fingertips, Only to smirk and back down.
You remember the past month where memories played in frantic rhythm till your own heart betrayed you and then the sky grew pink and then orange and then blue and this devastatingly beautiful hue which made you grow weak just like when you were seven and twelve and now twenty.
You don't know the art of a lover nor their aching happiness but this sky has always cradled you so you pretend that it's your face which is being held and what escapes from your lips is fuck. All of it is beautiful.
It always goes in a loop with your sighs competing against the wind and then you wonder whether this air itself is the collective exhale of all the lovers-without-the-art-of-love like you who are seeing the same shy crescent sun.
And it is in moments like these where you would take the life as it is: The green trees rustling in the wind, the tender plants you just gave water too, the flags on the nearby temples flurrying in the wind, the little girl in her chipped white house giggling. You will only want to exist and think, “I am feeling nothing, but it's okay.”
Tomorrow you'll take your half-composed poems and chew and swallow them up. Telling your words that you still have time to tell the stories of branches and flowers and letting go and being kind and the secrets of the summers.
You'll let yourself be what you are and let this vulnerability unfold slowly—one finger at a time— because I know there are songs which had built you up, bone by bone, and you keep them locked inside your ribs. You have this fervent desire to keep them safe and hidden because the rhythm of your heart is made up of their notes and there is this selfish part of you which you want only to yourself.
Because I too have these verses that make me shudder and hear the shattering of the fragile things in me; there are words of love and healing I have read which are holier than the gods I am sitting in front of, the fragrance of the incense sticks burning the room while these poetries light a wildfire inside my heart.
This emptiness makes me think about afternoons because afternoons are made to think. I'm trying to taste the memories of sitting in heat with the low hum of the fan above me. It's supposed to be sweet. I'm trying to remember the time where a phone didn't call this rush of adrenaline. I'm trying to remember this place a lot fuller than it is now— both with people and their anger they held for each other. I'm trying to remember the words I had within me two days ago. I'm failing.
But I do remember an evening where I thought that sometimes it's almost a race with yourself to reach the memory and tap it open; the winner gets to choose what lies inside. The truth breaks into segments till you can't put it back and make out what the moment was because once the time has passed, all you are left with is an illusion to decipher.
There are many of us who are just fighting to be alive, to breathe, to live. Everyday on Mirakee I find people who are tired of everything and of their life. There are people who just want to end their life. There are many of us who are fighting depression or any other mental illnesses, the taunts of society or the evil practices. Instead of telling them to be positive and comparing them to other people, we need to understand that all they need is love. All we can give is love. Instead of just ignoring such people thinking them as the negative people or asking them to come out of the depression, lets tell them that we love them. Make them realise that they are not alone. Instead of teaching them how to live life just listen to them, make them feel loved, accepted and that they are needed and they are not alone. Today, I read @alishabadhel post, I know that it's not easy for her to go through what she is going through. Instead of telling her to be positive or happy. Let's make her realise that she isn't alone, let us tell her that she is loved and that we all are here for her. Let's make her realise that there is no power greater than love and there are 1000s reasons to live than to die.
I would appreciate if you tag the above mentioned person and let her know that you love her. I don't know her neither does she knows me but the only thing I want her to realise is that she isn't alone and that we all are here for us. Sorry for the long post, thanks for reading this. You can tag your friends here :)