Its an inexplicable rush, almost comical and insanely cute to watch a pair of strong hands tremble nervously at the first thought of holding those delicate, tiny fingers worrying that it's fragile skin might crease with his clumsy touch that it's wobbling head might roll off his steely embrace that his rough lullabies sound like an old, crumbling plastic bag carefully folded & hushed and all of his masculinity begins to moisten at the first look of it's face
When I was being honest with myself, I had to own that there was something about me that was drawing an energy in my life that left me feeling underserved and unfulfilled. I decided to grow. I decided to purge myself of anyone and anything that was not full of goodness, serving me or making me happy. ~ Niecy Nash
You must have your own ideas about it. You have to have your own myth. To have your own myth means to have struggled and suffered with a question until an answer has come to you from the depths of your soul. - Carl Jung (couldn't verify it)
I throw a doubting pebble at the calm skin of the lake And watch them turn to ripples Learning what it really takes
Concentric speeding circles that show me what they mean Muted and non-verbal Nihility is not what it seems
Let's offer the benefit of doubt perhaps its nobbut a happenstance Then it's not you, I'm all about Just my subconscious state of trance
I throw my thoughts as stones And grow love like weeds of infestation Manifesting it in skin, flesh and bones from seeds of an untapped imagination
Then I think afterall I may not have fallen for you Perhaps I did fall for the idea of you But hey, ideas are caught inside my own head And as I give it a deeper thought Maybe I have fallen for me instead
It all began with being not brave enough to ask someone to stay; only ending up at both of us asking each other to stay.
You fill my mind with the sweet thought of you. I wish you permanent smiles :)
@mirakee you did one thing right, mirakee. Thanks.
"You need to follow my steps; step on the black tiles" "Black ones? Are you sure?" And before I could say yes, you head towards your right and I shift my foot to my left, destined, our foreheads collide, both of us looking downwards. I place my hand over my head and push back my lock of hair; and realising how this could take forever I burst into laughing in an audible sense; loud enough to make it contagious in a way that it makes you laugh after me, only if you had this synchrony while learning how to dance; the song wouldn't have ended in an incomplete sense. Hand at the back of your head, you snudge your nose and say, "One last time?" I gain my composure; flail my hands and play the song again, 'The Lumineers', and he sings imperfectly after a dramatic piano play "Living life in the city; it will never be pretty".
I can't help but smile over how gently you hold my hand; "Its alright" I say, and yet you are still confused over how the fingers are meant to be, so I make my mind to let them be entangled wrong.
You say, "I think we should look in each other's eyes." And I don't hear a word against the loud symphony of the song that plays in the background; I get lost among his cracked voiced falsettos and the love he doubled in the recipe of a perfect record. I replicate how I can't hear anything clear and cup my hand over my ear; a thin golden wire strung in it; and you lean in; to repeat again in your scenic voice; "I think, we should be looking, in each other's eyes."
In the immediate instant I shift my gaze to your eyes and smile still. Yet again, unconsciously, you smile too. "I don't hear the music anymore." I whisper. "Me neither." You lipsync. Your eyes, there is nothing beautiful about them. Darker than black, they say, don't look into them, you'd consume. And I think it would be fair to say that I willingly gave in to the silence inside of you. There is nothing beautiful about them, yet they still seem to beautiful to me. You're probably the only person who would stare in my eyes and not look away; maybe because you feel it too, heartbeats synchronizing just like your feet begin matching my pace like a miracle, as soon as we chose to get lost in noticing the colour of each other's eyes.
"I've looked in your eyes for longer periods of time." "I want to look in your eyes too."
Have you ever wondered why the distance between the stars I see in your eyes is measured in years? It's because if I look through them, I want death to dance with me while I get lost within them; it's because by the time I reach the smaller star in your other eye, it'd take years for me to look away. If I look through them, I see my face, and somehow, it's the only place I find it beautiful. In your eyes.
He sings, "And we'll never be apart Together from the start Never, never, falling back alone."
Somewhere, hidden under my maroon collar, you seek a mark that tells a story, I can see your eyes squint; you want to ask it itself to narrate, yet hesitant, you stutter when I ask you if you've brought me flowers today.
"I left them by the doorstep." "Thank you. I think you should leave."
And I reach for him to stop singing at all. "What is that scar from?" "I think you should leave now."
The silence in the room is familiar to you. It's been a long time together and we've heard things we didn't want each other to listen to. You described how you deliberately opted for a busy train with people narrowing down your way to your seat, just because you loved to notice their stories and the pictures they frame in your mind. Haven't you ever wondered there might be someone else who looks at your story, in silence; and you share it, in a synchronizing quiet evening? Contagious; yet again, not strange.
"Did he touch you again?" And looking straight into your eyes to make you realise that you didn't do anything for me, I say "Yes" It's the words that leave the scars. Deep, blue and permanently fresh. Just like the apples I cut into this morning; brown from the colour yet they taste the same still.
"I'm sorry." My hand extends out to place your messed up hair pleasantly; yet I stop midway, assuming that you won't like that gesture of mine. All I could do is smile. "I think you should..." "... leave, I know. I just don't want to. I want to click your pictures sometime." "Someday. Maybe." "I hate somedays." But isn't it a beautiful word? Just like 'almost'. Tragically fulfilling; just on the verge of being the perfect combination of blue and yellow to yield a green; yet still, it ends up being blue on the edges with yellow strokes in the middle over the canvas when you paint. Someday. Someday we will meet. Someday you can be that faceless person you wished to be in my daydreams. Someday we will have to sleep forever. Someday, it'd hurt less. Someday we will have that walk just like we've imagined. Someday, everything will be alright. That day, don't hesitate to hold my hand. I've been scared lately.
"Could you happen to give me a ride to him?" "Sure."
And the sky is tanned; the sun, it seems cool to touch somehow. We've been counting the street lights along the way and I laugh; do you remember claiming to climb streetlights and car tops to scream and look for me if we ever sense each other's presence in a crowd? I'd wait for that night to come. It's raining; light, young and soft. Something that doesn't let you drench in your shirt but you do tend to free your hands and feel the drops touching your eyelids. It's been hard; life, but it's going to be alright. Someday.
We halt by the graveyard and you seem to notice a bulge in my belly behind my grey jacket. "You still leave the roses I bring for you by his grave?" "Yes. Yes I do." "How could you forgive him?" "Just like you forgave me."
We've told each other in the past how it has been easy for people to unlove us and how it has been hard for us to find love again. And we've also told each other, "Shut up, anybody would love you." Maybe it's easy. What seems hard is, would we be willing to love them?
"Alright" you say. Nodding your head. For someone who was proud to offer an old lady a cup of tea; you seem more of a human when you are yourself. Traditional yellow light bulbs couldn't look any more prettier to me since the day you said they were. I've been wearing my watch upside down purposefully lately; did you notice? I noticed the ring on your thumb that your friend gifted you. The ring; not the thumb.
"You should get going. I'd get home myself." "The sky looks beautiful." "It is beautiful." "You are beautiful."
And even though everytime I ask you not to use that word over me; no matter how much undeserving I prove to be to myself; each time, every time, I heal a bit. You probably didn't notice, but that scar on my neck beneath my collar disappeared once you said those words. I would never know if you meant what you said; but it heals. And those are the times I realise how I complain about no one teaching me how to deal with the pain of losing someone I love; but they didn't even teach me what to do when it hurts me twice as much to lose something that was never mine.
Watching you leave hurts me that way. And I end up saying, "I can't live without you." Way too many times I would've liked to.
"I don't think I am myself anymore." "Don't say that. I want you to turn around when I call you by your name."
And I begin my walk backwards. While you stand still. You call me by my name, and I turn around.
"Roses or something else tomorrow?" "Bring them for me this time. You know what I love." "It's raining; are you sure you can go by yourself?" "I'm fine; just leave now." I have to yell against the wind against me, as the distance increases. "Can you hear the music now?" You scream louder. "Yes I do." "When will it stop?" "Someday."
I walk away. Removing my shoes, barefoot. And you cringe, watching me walk over the mud, wet in the rain.
But there's nothing wrong with a little space, For the memories, for the good times Turn around now, turn around Don't leave me now.
A ray of hope, I remember seeing it for the first time. I was a little kid back then; contaminated by the will to win the world. I used to envision a little trail, leading to a globe emitting light. In the beginning of my journey, I really felt like a protagonist straight out of a bestseller. I was marching ahead on an adventure with a victorious music playing in the background, of course I was happy. Life was so smooth back then. I used to destroy the demons in a single swing of my sword. But that didn't last long. It was about time for life to introduce the antagonist. Time. An entity so powerful, its strength is still unmeasurable by me. Time practically did nothing other than witnessing me. It was there all the time, in present. It never ran out of power. The clocks ticked. And I started growing up.
As I grew up, something strange started to happen. That ray of hope began to fade away. Even the mightiest stars flicker, I thought and continued my adventure. But that tick of time continued as well. As a result, here I stand. I stand on the verge of nothingness, finding the meaning of my life. I still swing my sword at the demons, even though it is rusted and cracked. The ray of hope? It has disappeared, bending its knee to the shadow of defeat. That trail? It has collapsed by the fear of unknown.
I don't remember the last time I celebrated. I don't remember the last time I felt joy. I can't recall a night without a worrying thought. Every success feels hollow. Emotions are shallow. And happiness waves goodbye; without even greeting a hello.
I do not think I posses the clarity of thought required to answer a question as simple as cheking a yes for breathing and still, simultaneously, as complex as rehabilitation for a chainsmoker who doesn't understand the 'why' behind living.
My days haven't been linear for as long as I have been a master of my days, and before that, my days have been a reflection of my mother's lack of linearity. I am so many good days but bad nights, and I am so many loud nights but silent days; my definition of good changes with every sunset. My life is a culmination of so many undefined dimensions and interpretations, which aren't always my own, that more often than not, I am barely keeping up with the systematic documenting of all its aspects.
I am so many nights of wishing upon a falling star merging with a craving for a starless sky; I am so much longing merging with avoidance; I am so much ambition merging with incompetence, and I am so much care merging with neglect. I have never been good at deconstruction, and they didn't teach me how to be sure about anything and I feel so lost in this overly romanticised grey.
And, when I tell you that I am fine, you nod with an understanding that's almost palpable and reflect the words that felt like betrayal on my tongue. I wince internally as they graze my skin and rub against it like sand paper.
So, I take a knife out of my pocket and carve half a moon on your mouth and mine, and ask you the question again.
You tell me that you are fine, again, but this time, the words are tender in their caress, like a lie you don't expect me to acknowledge, like a lie that's not to be perceived as a lie. Your eyes tell me that the words no longer taste like betrayal to the self.
And I, forcefully ignorant, choose an easy deconstruction of a question I don't fully understand, and echo the f-word in all its vulgar glory. Fine.