We all have our own stories and we all want to occupy the main seat there. Some stories walk towards horizon, go afar from you. Some remain being a bystander. Some absorb bitterness and set themselves free whenever we narrate them. Sometimes we don’t tell a story but the story itself does tell about us. They stand beside the time, watch a show, breathe, sigh and lastly, smile. Looking up at the sky and then at us, they smile.
I live in a town, mundane. And here, the colour of euphoria is grey. We breathe particles of carbon. we chase the feeling of pleasing a stranger and don’t wave hands at an old pal. Here, the alcohol tastes better, mixed with tears of agony that nobody wants to listen to. We all have our own stories.
I live in a town, disdained. Here, stories are born at night and they die in the mornings. Again, they reincarnate at gloomy nighttime, sited by the Citylights. The citylights see the stories being born, dead. The stories have their stories of birth and death, peace and piece that the citylights narrate.
Hannah lives at sidewalk, under the shade of a supermarket, with her mother. It had always been hard for her to raise a daughter, alone. Hannah sees the starry sky, sometimes the milky way with her widely opened eyes. She dreams. The tears of her mother caress those dreams. They are afraid of being left behind. But again she dreams, she wanders. On cloudy nights she sees the citylights instead of stars. The serene lights see her too, her dreams. Hannah sleeps well on rainy nights and wakes up with clang of a coin onto their aluminium plate.
Rin stays up late at night. The silence eats him up. He misses the melody of his piano. He wanted to be a pianist but his father wants him to be a doctor. Art really never was welcomed in his family. They adore digits and diagrams, rates and ratios. Rin remembers in detail when for the last time he performed amidst people, clapping for him. Lights, covering him up. He, drenched in tears of joy, sweat of pride and heavy breaths of hope. But that seemed a dream. And he is awake now. From his window sill he sees the citylights. They look alike the spot lights. The noisy cars talks like excited layman and so he plays. The piano. The citylights see him playing the piano, with his teary eyes.
Sia’s mother hopes. She hopes a lot, prays a lot. It has been years and since she saw Sia, playing, calling her mother out. She tells her fine stories every night. Sia sleeps well, in a world of half mortality. Her mother hopes she would be calling her soon. She hopes she would wake up, be back from the realm, doctors call it ‘coma’. Every second is hope, she counts onto. Every citylight is a witness. They pray with her.
Nanami laughs like there is no tomorrow. But the alcohol of joy and gesture of strangers seem lifeless to her. She plays her part at parties, kisses like adorable blood sucker and craves for home like a refugee. She says her stories are different even the citylights don’t know the whole. She writes letters with smoke to her long lost lover. She leaves some letters unsent, inside the ashtray. She leaves her heart on the floor. Burning the love in between her lips, she let the death count how much she lived. She made her choice not to love, anymore. But someday, she breaks it. She breaks it with a cheer of glass and loves a bit more heartbreakingly, on the lap of booze. The citylights kiss her face like wind and stroke her hair.
I live with them, in a town, dull and mundane. We share the same sky but different rain; same stars but different wishes; same dark nights but different abysses. We see the same citylights but with different stories in our eyes.
It was last summer. And your words came like a less cruel nighttime rain, a breeze in lonesome twilight, the Sakura and like, a friend.
My eyes have always been a dried ground, cracked up soil, abandoned with the foliage of glee. Precisely a desert. So it soaked all the moisturiser from your words. And then, it rained, outside and inside. Heavily. Mercilessly. All at once.
I precisely remember the first time i felt it, underneath my skin, deep inside my ribcage. A slight trembling, an anomaly of old blisters, sweat around fingertips, hide and seek of cold and warmth. They all fell upon me like the falling orange maple leaves and they stayed with me. They stay with me daily.
I always have trusted books and words more than people. If a book promises you something, in reality which it actually does, it would keep that promise in anyway. Books smell of love, peace and friendship. A little less about me and a little more about my favourite stranger. It was a phase of life where i was lost and almost had lost faith in love but in words. And then i found your words. Vivid. Omnipresent. Like daylight. No, not exaggerating.
Poets tell fine stories to us and we put the last trace of our rapt attention to listen to them without knowing that somehow we are the part of it. There is a fine line between ‘believe’ and ‘trust’. So i believe poets. I believe their words. So i believed you. Though at the end you killed all the people i liked, I believed you. I really really loved Alaska but you made her die, how unpleasant! I really fell for Gus. Jeez, you killed him too! I wanted to smile at the end after shuffling all the pages. I really wanted Margo and Q to be together but you didn’t let that happen too, how unpleasant! Still i liked you and morely, your words. Slowly and then all of them. Within a blink.
You didn’t actually talk, even if you had done so from Indianapolis, i couldn’t have heard you. But anyhow i listened to you. I remember the nights i spent on being high on dark chocolates and black coffee, with yours words, your stories. Your stories spoke about Love, loss, slice of life and a peripheral journey of agony. Faults, some more faults, sins, sinners, tulips, metaphors and so many. They all belong to some infinity, bigger than our favourite ideas of ‘forever’. Now they belong to me. And i am glad they do. I really am.
The stories you told me were magicians. Sometimes they were alchemists. They turned my tears into ink, my void into poems, my nothings into somethings. I came out. I smiled. I met people. I lifted my curtains up. I opened the window. I let the whiff in. I breathed. I started walking to become a memory someday. A memory, a good one, of someone, of some people or perhaps of a book. As at the end of the day we all are nothing but memories, under the stars, drenched in rain, amidst cobwebs and dust and sometimes six feet under the soil.
We all have some friends. They don’t actually speak but we like talking to them. They don’t judge. They just let us smile. They make a home for us. People on earth, call them Books. Then it comes some more friends whom you call ‘friend’, give a nickname, want to be with and also fall for as well. Well, your words resemble those friends.
Thank you for making me believe in Love. Peace. And above all, in Life.
Happy Valentines Day to you and morely, to your words.
______________________ Guess, this letter too would stay inside the locked drawer. But I'm glad I wrote it. Thank you. 14.02.2019 #valentine
I suppose I've always been too...trusting. As a child, I was blessed with startling innocence and a curious heaping of naivete which staunchly protected my little, cheerful self. Strangers did not scare me, friends could not hurt me, and my bursting emotions flowed smoothly from my small lips in an eager rush, never afraid to express my feelings. I was candid, I was bright, I was smiling. Things changed quickly. My perfect world was shattered over and over again by the people I cared for. Still, I smiled bravely. In first grade. In second grade. All the way to fifth grade, when I stood up to my bully, got us both in the Principal's office, and broke down, crying, begging for forgiveness for having hurt her. All the way through middle school, still retaining an "open door policy" to my mind. Like a library, go ahead and browse around, discover treasures, deep and rare, and amuse yourself in my pecularities. My library is very dusty nowadays. Hardly anyone stops by. Even I, the sole author, has lost interest. Maybe it's because...because... Honestly, I am not sure. I dare not trust my own opinion on the matter of why my colored world seems to have turned fuzzy and dark. I am stuck in my head. Without a heart. Oh yes, I am living, sure. I have a beating rock, iced over and jagged, and painfuly pounding in my chest to remind me that it's there. That I'm here. When did everything change? Why am I so alone? Can anyone hear me?
I write a sunset in my mind, as the sun slowly undresses the sky, layer by layer. she's no longer white, no longer blue, she's a burning orange, a shy pink. She makes love with the fingers of a widow.
But I've written this before. In another life. In another body. Somebody has. This borrowed language gnaws away at me. I lie in a bed of words born in another's throat, moulded with another's fingers. The linguists of the past deny me the ego of a creator. But then again, what is truly mine. Proprietorship is merely a coin rolling down a vending machine.
I have my back to the metaphors of every dead poet who sat on this bench. Glory is forgotten, names are forgotten, words are forgotten too. The clouds hover in a voiceless mourning, a veil for the widowed sky. They remain a ghostly white even in the darkness.