//time forgets..// It was the hour, where seconds lost time while following the trails of minutes. I've been the hand of the hour, where after a span of 60 minutes I reach another destination, but I don't stop, or rather I'm unable to. Clockwise leaving traces in moments.
If I wished to stop, minutes may lose sense of direction. They may choose to rebel, against the pattern they've been bind by the threads of me. I can only wish though, because my ends are bound time immemorial, and death was never my kin.
So many peculiarities I inhabit, but it remains the same for everyone. I humbly wait for minutes to pass the cycle, and along with them I enter into a new present. Time isn't anyone's friend, it can never be or else I'll be chained by empathy.
I have no emotions, and nothing can affect the workings of me. Even though people may turn my hands as per their convenience, I still continue, irrevocably. There's no master of me, and I'm the master of singularities.
Past is what I've survived from, and future is the offspring of mine. Present is my home, where the ruins are visages and I'm decayed in memoirs. I'll be here always, noticing your fall or uprising to heavens.
"Humor me then, why do heartbrokens wish I'd stopped forever?" ---------------
Title's from yiruma's piano piece, which is of the same title.
*WARNING* Rant. Rant. Rant. ------------- It's the people mostly, sometimes I become cynical of my own breathing. There are days, one of those impeccable one's, with eyes waking up to sunrise, stomach just doesn't feel right. Not because of stale food, but because of a warning, this day will test my sanity and grip on emotions, unruly.
I will just give up perhaps, because words are usually not the one's I seek for comfort. It feels like occasional visits from tremors and dizzying head that can't stay stable on thoughts.
It's either the rage building up, and wanting to smash or rip apart own's existence, just so blood could breathe hard and deep. Dripping from sliced edges, and outside of me. Visible enough to disgust one's sight, but not severe enough to beg for pardon.
Or the relentless need to throw everything out, from silent mouth and drops of salty tears. Eyes glazed every so often, just when I reminded myself of the good still existent. In the thickets of darkness and almost invisible at the first look-over. Heart needs to cry in my mother's lap and on my brother's shoulder, but I choose to transpose and become contorted revulsion.
The after effects stays until next sunrise, seething rage and dissatisfied mind. It gets better as the day progresses, yet that unflinching acknowledgement of wretched thoughts stays somewhere hidden in a lobby. I shall go on, like nothing happened, and maybe I'll forget how vividly I executed the delinquent residing in me. --------------
There are songs, that connects all the dissimilar pieces into a mural. And make it seem like an effortless art, but only you know how each piece felt lost for belonging solely to themselves.
I had a piece of me, lost into an endless void. Almost non-existing for a fraction of seconds. And when things started to fell in the right place, I searched for that missing piece. But found the art incomplete, the missing piece playing some kind of hide and seek.
I habitually get stuck in extremities, seldom in midriff situations, where bipolarity is a nuisance. If I am at glee in the moment, feeling enough for myself and others, I will practice benevolence.
But when sadness comes to switch places, there's a distinct pain in my chest and oftentimes, I run towards a corner in the middle of a minefield with numb steps.
Words preach thousands of stories, I try to make allegories out of them. A hindsight of an irreversible event, that comes into foreplay only when purpose becomes a burden or all directions converge, making no sense to vaticinator.
I hide, and I seek too. I run, and I skip heavens too. I pray and I commit sins too. The art fantasizes dark magic and heart seeks shelter in necromancy. I tried to make them understand, but they rendered me a Bible, to compensate. -------------
The first rain of the season, felt like the arrival of a new stranger. Petrichor reaching to every soul, where a teenager smears the words incoherently, and making them a fond remembrance similar to the soil that is dried off of relics, and sweet nostalgia.
One chirpy evening, grievous clouds couldn't bargain anymore time than they already bagged in. They poured with the intention of keeping nothing left but a rainbow, as a keepsake memory. The girl strolling through the sidewalk, laterally opened her umbrella in anticipation of cloud's bereavement.
She felt like a disaster walking through bombshells. After every ten steps, new arrivals of regret kept knocking and conking her failed attempts. The umbrella was barely sufficient, from preventing the drops of sadness inching closer to her scanty heart.
She thought how harsh the downpour was, even petrichor suffocated under the intensity of her thoughts. She thought of reaching home early today, because the doors had to be shut before dawn. She thought of obstacles that might disturb her from escaping forever. But not once did she thought, that the rainfall would dominate with it's torrent and consume her voice from being heard.
Her poetry was untainted, and verses like an ordinary army knife, painting murals on sensibly perceptions in ashen shades. I'm afraid, if by offering her the aid, will I break the last thread? -------------
It wasn't like a walk in the park, but on a road where bones were rubbles, flying off recklessly whenever somebody passed by, not knowing they conceived regrettable history.
There are insecurities, guarding the vicinity in a proud manner. Shunning off any chances of improving, such sad faces and lonely shafts. They tilted the steering wheels, taking over the control from the hands that abhorred praying selflessly.
Sudden gust of realization, puts the volatile emotions on a pedestal. Knowing not that the signals, always indicated towards a path leading to damnation. Perhaps, being a road made me comfortable with being walked on by people, that rubbed off dust and never looked back once.
Their heavy footsteps pushed down the fears and I suppressed, having no complaints about being trampled. With time, the concrete started to perish, weakening the rigid foundation. Potholes became the indentation, when feelings got clogged up and condemned were the careless feet, for leaving their traces unattended.
Sunsets are merciful, they console the worst parts of me by caressing with its nightfall shades. Still the vulnerability doesn't suit my ethics, for this road was never the one anyone would ever sought for their journey.
This road never witnessed a home, cherished or cared for. So I let them turn me into a graveyard, where dead bodies stayed unlike Samaritans. ----------
'When I was growing up, in the 1980’s, life was hard. My dad was in prison for smuggling drugs. It was so bad, we were so strapped for money, and mom had to give up another child for adoption, soon after I was born. She worked three jobs for twelve years straight to send me to school.’
‘Whoa Corey, this sob story, it ain’t affecting me. So, get to the goddamn point.’
‘I got into college on a scholarship. Only way I could have. There was no more money. My mom had saved it all, and then she died. All those years of suffering, and her heart just gave up on her. So, there I was. A college graduate with no money and no family.’
Tristan Baxter stood up.
‘Look Corey, I know you had a messed up childhood. I get it, okay? But, why exactly are you telling me all this?’
Corey put her arms on Tristan and forced him back onto the chair.
‘Do you want a drink Tristan? Cause, you are gonna listen to what I say, whether you like it or not.’
‘Just get to the point. God, you are such a..’
‘Okay, so a friend took me in. Two years passed somehow, but finally, I was building a decent career. I had money, real money, for the first time ever. While my dating life was non-existent, life was mostly good.
Two months back, I started having bouts of fatigue, severe vomiting, and shortness of breath. Visited a doctor, guess what? Leukaemia. Of all the people in the world, God had chosen me. Blood cancer. Terminal. I asked for alternate options.’
‘So you are dying?’ There was no emotion in Tristan’s voice as he said it.
‘Shut up and listen. The doctor referred me to an oncologist. Some new treatment method is coming up apparently. Experimental medicine. Asked me if I wanted in, as part of a clinical study. Expensive as hell, though. What do I gotta lose? I said yes. It involves some kind of blood transfusion based on a familial match. Draining out the cancerous blood cells, yada yada.’
‘You got no family, though. So, you are basically screwed, yeah?’
‘I searched, you know. Tracked down this family who took in the kid my mom gave up. They said he had left home after turning eighteen. Hadn’t a clue where he had gone. I was preparing to give up, until one day, I saw the news.’
‘You love stories, don’t you Corey? So, what was there on the news?'
‘A picture of the Sacramento Stabber. Welcome to hell, big brother. Welcome to hell.’
Darkness hides all the awful things that seek you out in the light And covers all the terrible images the light reveals.
BLIND. I can see more in dark than in light. Have you ever felt a sunrise Or tasted moonlight? Have you ever heard the night slowly crawl across the horizon; Devouring what is left of the day. Secrets are whispered silently and lost in the dark. Echos and silence mingle together to create the symphony of shadows.
DEAF. I hear more in the silence of the night. Have you ever felt the embrace of darkness Or caught the scent of morning rays of light? Even the most quiet words spoken in silence carry the power Of a roaring thunder storm.
MUTE. I speak more words in my mind than I ever could aloud. Have you ever felt pain? Whether it was the smallest burn or your lungs straining while you choke under water. It completely surrounds you and buries itself deep into your soul Even if it only lasts a second.
You are under a lilac sky, a gleaming night sky which barely overlooks the remnants of your whims and calls, aren't you? Now you wonder Jasmine, how I do know all this, don't you? I know myself and that's why I can say, you wonder. And at this time, you are frowning and digging every possible souvenir out to connect the dots. But you fail. And now you are just going to see the name of sender. Don't do that for now. Let me say who I am. I'm, you, Jasmine. I am the twenty years old you, writing these letters to you, my nine years old self. I'm twenty now and I have so many "could've been" and "would've been", in other words, regrets. There are some things, I would like to tell you before you keep your feet on the thorns like I did eleven years ago. I know you would believe me. I was as simple as a mirror back then. As fresh as first rain of monsoon. As soothing as the first sakura of April. Here are some letters. And at the end of each letter I have mentioned exactly when you are supposed to read the next letter. Please do as I say. I know you will. I was obedient back then. You may read the next letter right now.
Letter 2 :
Jasmine, if you are reading this, then I assume you have read the first letter with your rapt attention. In few weeks you are about to have your final exams of KG school. I know you are morose. You abhor goodbyes. You hate showing back. Then it will be the day of result outing. You, along with your classmates, would make a promise to themselves that you all would be coming for the ultimate goodbye. A proper, goodbye. Don't make that promise. Your closet friend would make that promise too. And you would expect him coming. Don't do so. Here the sun of questionnaires would be rising deep inside your heart. But as I can't fumble the curtains wholly, only I can say this. That day, you would be meeting your first heartache ever. The very first crack on the ground of your heart. And the root is that promise. Don't make it. Please. You will be moving to a next town. So get prepared for new air. New sighs. New classmates. New. New and everything new. Only the blood in your veins and your bloodline would be the same. And nothing more. You should read the next letter before you join your new school.
Letter 3 :
Here, you have made two letters, imprinted on your mind. Well done Jasmine. Here is something very important. I need you to listen to this. Very carefully. With every ounce of yours. Father will be willing to put you for your drawing classes. Don't join the class. Don't! The classes would be on Sundays. You love painting. And back then I was pretty good on that. You have a good choice of colours and canvases. You have been adoring hues for so long. The crimson twilight, the blue winter. The orange and your favourite back then, the summer rose. Here, at my twentieth step, things are unbearably grey. Mundane. Don't join the class. Save yourself. Save jasmine. Father would listen to you. He loves you.
You will be leading the top position in your class. But you pushed yourself very hard. Well, precisely saying, I pushed. You don't do that. Perhaps Mum would love you a little less, perhaps Dad would be less proud but hey, it's gonna be okay. Things would tend to better-ness than bitterness.
After the summer vacation, you would skip school for one day. Don't do that. Go to school. Successively. No matter what and how. You would be refraining someone from doing something notorious. Something fatal. And this way you would be able to save both of you.
Make some good friends. By the word "Good", I meant, the friends who would be by your side no matter what. You will get one, your best friend. Don't let him go away, in any cost. He really cares. With him things would be little bit more bearable. He really would be meaningful to you with the passage of time. He would be shy or perhaps a slap of introverted self. But he will be doing things for you silently. So each time he would be making you smile, don't forget to thank him. He would be overwhelmed. He would be smiling.
You must read the next letter before 2013
Letter 4 :
By this time, you have embraced your puberty. Now you know about hormones and feelings, chemistry and all the statics. You are struggling to untangle the knots left, I assume. And I really hope you did as I said and now having a serene smile on your face. The most important thing, in fact the main tornado of your life is, Love. Next year, you would be falling in love. I can not say, don't fall. This is something words cannot control. This is beyond all. Rather I would say not to go out on 15th March. Stay at home. For the entire day. Read as much as you can. Don't go outside. From here things would be pretty much awkward. Love is something, that was never in my basket. To me it has always been a cigarette, passionate enough to kill all the butterflies of my very stomach. If people wanna abandon you, let them. People are breeze Jasmine, they are just to touch your face and leave.
Perhaps life there, has been changed a bit or maybe a lot. And I hope that's for good. Maybe you have found someone who is apt to cherish your heart. If not then don't hurry. Just don't fall for the wrong autumn. The spring would mourn. Just wallow over the canvas and wait for the sky to fall upon.
You may read the next letter after your 10th board.
Letter 5 :
I know you have done very well in your 10th board. Congratulations. But you are not so happy, well, I know myself. It's gonna be okay. Don't worry.
In my world, I write. Precisely I'm a scribbler. And I find my euphoria here, in the lines, voids and metaphors. I started writing to lift up the burden, to set the world free from upon my shoulders, from the heart. If you have done accordingly as I said and if there life had been changed for a betterment, still you can hold a pen. Still you can sniff the aroma of ink soaked paper. There are zillions of hues that you can paint with black and white, in poetry.
Above all, I would say, if you can, Write. Write for the goods. Write for the summer rose. Write for the sufferings and sufferers. For the survives. For the fighters. For zeal. For nature. For the these letters. For mum. And above all, for yourself.
And on this pathway, in the poetic exodus of unspoken and metaphors, you may fall for amalgamation of words but don't fall for the hands who write it. Poetry is better than a person. Fall for a poetry but never for a person. Not now. Be sane.
You may read the next letter.
Letter 6 :
This is the ultimate letter. From me to the junior me. Now I wonder whether I could reach you with these words. How are you now? I wonder. But asking a question would be a vain. You can't answer. But someday if you see a dandelion dancing in rain, wave your hands towards that. Do so. 'cause that would be me.
You may think, I am happy, dancing at my edges as I told you some alterations and now I, here, would be breathing in a fresh air. But no. Jasmine.
I can never change future by writing letters to bygone. Here, I would be the same as I was. And somehow I have accepted it. By altering the bygone, in your world, you would be creating a parallel world, different from mine where you would live, breathe in a fresh air. The letters cannot be back to me. So you may keep them.
I always wanted to save myself. But each time, I failed. I stretched my back to save else's sake. I always have been doing so. But at the end of the day, I am fallen all alone, like a culprit. And here I'm, a culprit for decade. Whenever I see a kid, cold, standing, or is about to jump into the world of blue, I shiver. I urge to save the kid.
Nobody said this to me. Even when I needed to hear it the most. And if nobody has said this earlier then let me say now, to you, "it's okay, you will be just fine. I'm here."
So I wrote the letters. To save you. I know not how far I have come out victorious. But I guess, the world there, the parallel one would be a bit more bearable than it. The wind here, it blows from land to sea, dried and hot. I hope the wind there would be blowing backward, from sea to land, full of moisture and heartthrobing. I hope I saved you. And not me, in this world, but you, would be smiling Jasmine. Somewhere, somehow. Beautifully. Perhaps more beautifully.
Corey Francis got up and took a drink of water. 'You already know the answer to that, don't you?'
Tristan Baxter didn't reply instantly. He stared at his psychologist for half a minute. Then, in a low drawling voice, he said:
'Do you know about the anterior insular cortex?'
Corey Francis nodded.
'They cut up my brain, you know. Did an MRI. Know what was missing? Anterior insular cortex. I read about it. It helps to process empathy. And everyone knows, psychopaths don't have empathy. They don't feel things the way a normal person does. So, yeah, if you go by science, I am a psychopath.'
'So why did you ask?'
Tristan smiled, his lips slightly parted, his upper teeth peeking out beneath his moustache.
'You may treat psychopaths, doctor.. but you are normal, aren't you?'
Corey gave a wry grin.
'I guess that depends on your definition of normal.'
'Oh come on Doctor, you know what I mean. You like to listen to music, watch whatever crap comes on your television, eat Chinese and pizza...get my drift?'
'What's your point, Tristan?'
'You are being paid to play with my mind. If psychopaths like me didn't exist, you would be out of a job. How messed up is that?'
'Would you like to eat something?'
'There you go. My point exactly. You try to distract somebody, it's by food or a present. Here's a news flash, I am not distracted. I don't get distracted, okay? My brain, it doesn't think like you.'
'You are talking. That's good. In the psych ward, you weren't. That's good. That's progress.'
Tristan laughed, and it was the hollowest laugh Corey had ever heard. ''And if I kill you, what happens to the progress? And believe me, I can do it. And not feel a thing.'
Corey Francis looked at her patient with narrowed eyes. She stood up slowly from her chair and smirked.
'Do you know what the media calls you Tristan? The Sacramento Stabber. You stabbed women. Young women. Women who had a future to look forward to. Women like me. So, you know what, I was given your case. You are my only patient now. My number one priority.'
That hollow laughter again. 'That means I am dangerous? A serial killer, right? God, I am such a cliche.'
'Tristan, you do realize that you will spend the rest of your life in prison?'
'Don't give a damn, doctor.'
Corey Francis sighed, the exasperation evident in her face.
'I want to tell you a story. You up for it?'
'I am listening, doctor.'