@writersnetwork Recently, these dichotomies have fascinated me to great depths.
Why is it that the ones that are afraid to lose you, hurt you the most? Why is it that the ones that want you, desire you, stay just out of reach, enough to keep your desire alive and their's accessible but never acquirable? Why is that when you give up on things, they have a way of crawling back to you? Why is that the exhilaration of failing right after you've given up on something, reach the same depths that posessing that which is so very valuable does? Why does darkness blind you in light? And why does light blind the darkness? Why do we live in these cycles? And why don't we see the part where these dichotomies meet? Why are the rich so poor and poor so rich? Why are we so alone, yet so content with being alone and also so content with pain? Why are we in pain? Why do we seek for an escape from the pain if we do not desire pain? And why do we seek for pain again when we do not have pain? What do we want? Why do we say nothing, when we behave like we want everything and why do we behave like we need nothing when there is always something that we want so bad? Why are we so unjust? Why don't we just become just? Why are we so broken, poor, ill, lying, crying and dying? And why is all this chaos, in it's undertone of death, called living?
It's been six months Since what has happened. It was not a point in time. It was not a clear demarcation.
It was something that induced a lot of fear, anxiety and sickness before it took place and even after it did, it did the same.
The only time, infact, that I got to meet myself was when it was actually taking place.
What more could have happened? I was at peace inside. I was hurting, it was unreal, I felt detached from the reality around me but I still felt like I almost weaved into the patterns of the entire universe. So out of control, so much a part of a rigid & smoothly flowing layout in which my participation was inevitable. I felt distant and a part of it at the same time. Everything had a delayed response. I was questioning all my senses constantly- Is this occurring, are my feet touching the ground, are these my hands? And strangely enough, at this point of complete depersonalization I realized how stupid I am. How stupid and insignificant my fears are. How insignificant all these constructs are.
Out of all these insignificant things. Something that mattered was about to get deceased. The death of something, a construct, but a much wholesome one was about to sizzle and dissolve into thin air.
It felt like millions of tiny parts of me were multiplying themselves and breaking apart further and further and at the same time trying hard to hold on to each other. It felt chaotic, Like echoes in my head of faint unclear sounds that felt like something that made profoundly painful sense but in reality, didn't. My breath and life were heightened. Admist all this pain, it's so crazy, that this was the one moment that I felt alive. It was proof that I am alive. Because if I wasn't, there is no explanation to the intensity of the experience. I cannot exactly pinpoint where it ended.
But every now and then, it strikes me that this was my life a few months ago and I again sense a distance between myself and all the constructs of this world. I sense a weird circular glass barrier that encloses me and you. And the world crazily montages around it. But the next moment the lights go off. And I feel myself suffocated by my own singular presence, my skin, my body in a dark place with a strong stench.
But I make it a point to not think so much. Everytime I do, my heart feels like it is being tied up with tight thread. It doesn't feel like it is pumping freely. My chest still aches the way it did the first time that I sensed that I had to be prepared for what's coming.
Did I bring it all upon myself? What happened, why & how? I am overlapped by so many questions. I keep holding myself responsible and answerable.
And the more that I try to experience these answers, I get swayed back into the chaos of everything and I lose sight of my purpose. So, does it really matter? Do any of these answers matter?
As a child I always wanted to chase the wind. She was so free, so beautiful, the queen of her own will. So for years, I admired her. Then one day, I ran after her. The more I ran, the more she teased me. She flew past me, but I could never posses her. My long flocks, my eyelashes, my tan skin teased by her featherlike moves I wanted more. I ran faster and she was always almost there but never enough, never mine. One day I collapsed, exhausted I was in the think mud of the desert dunes. Far far away from home Wind still played her little games. The sand blew into my eyes. That day I was tired. I was hungry, and had to put myself first. I forgot the wind. That day I looked back and saw how far I had come. That day I saw all the things that I had missed. Chasing after the wind. And I did find water. A pond. I was lucky. I saw my shimmering reflection. I saw the wind playing with it. The wind, she didn't want me to kill her. She didn't want me to take away her beauty. To hold her, to cease her She didn't want to go away either. I looked at the pond Glimmering sunlight and the breeze A different breeze A breeze that flowed within me
The wind was a metaphor for all that I had to access within myself, The lost flow that I had to find within me. And I found it the moment I stopped chasing after the wind.
In the afterlife Where everybody survives and everybody dies Plath meets Woolf Hemingway meets Mayakovsky Koestler meets Saxton . Fine old wine is brought drank savoured and spilled They talk about the life they've led and how they're proud of the way they died . Smoke from Hemingway's cigarette chokes Plath and she sees this as a metaphor perfect for her life . They tell each other how their depressing tales are licked by the dying and rotting people here , and how it makes their skin melt and their skull tingle . Woolf spills her wine on her ivory robe and does no attempt to clean it because what she wrote was stained , with beautiful pain and lies of life , and also because the people who quote her are stained , but with murders , cynicism and black blood .
- I sit down in the farthest corner of my room sniffing the blood around my arm and not blaming my mom for the sympathy she has for me , and my dad for showing me a little too much love . I wonder if somebody picked up my skirt from dad's bedroom and threw it ,or it's still lying there as a symbol of my fate ? Brother sees the marks around my thighs and arms and awards me a slap . They hit me cause I cut me . Oh ! The irony . The knives and ropes of the house are hidden in the basement and dad has the key . Not because they're afraid I'd do something with myself , but because the wounds on my sister's neck from when I tried to strangle her , are still fresh . I scratch the walls of my room and poke the needles in my calf just for the sake of seeing myself bleed . Brother storms in my room and uses my sternum as an ashtray and I smirk , thinking that there's a window to get in the basement . I resume reading Saxton .
- Mayakovsky tells Koestler how he saw a young man , in the woods burying his beloved's body and then wiping his bloody hands on his trackpants . He tells the last thing she read was one of his poems and how the fact that he is the last thought of a dead human makes him high .
All of them roar with laughter , forgetting for a second how they all died and are fading , and they smirk at people telling each other to move on , they know , their poems haunt people more than their worst nightmares coming true .
Soon, I'll not be the void who'd succumb your stories of every day; all the battles you lost, and the ones you were close to capturing, because the loser you're, I reckon better than anyone, that you never seize victory. Talking about triumphs, I'll be the filthiest mouth, so allow me to digress — every morning, I sit upright on my bed after yawning and stretching a couple of times, and gaze woefully at the leaves of fall that leave their mellow branches. "Your days are numbered." — the doctor's words still echo whenever I'm planning something or procrastinating things, but then wallowing in the certain self-destruction always hits the roof of priorities; isn't it stupid, how I lived so cautiously, tried to avoid embarrassments for maybe a time when I'd actually live and then I'm all of a sudden robbed of it. Before slumber, I often contemplate that had I ran recklessly and breathed carelessly, I'd have fewer regrets buried with me. I've fewer worries for myself now, but I'm more stressed about you; you're such a fuss, I do not trust you for even a day to be alright without telling me that you have no urge left to live in this wild, vicious world; who would, then, ask you to smile widely for your least favourite person — me. As they say, the dead leave, but their carcass and memories are left behind, and it's wrenching that the only present I'd ever have for you would be the grief that'd hover for an infinity. Anyway, lots of funeral flowers, and black dresses, with a turquoise coffin, I am darn sure you'd err in the colour, I'd settle for it then, what choice have I otherwise. And, I'll pray that you learn to say for yourself when you're not alright, and for the sake of aesthetics, save them tears in your eyes, loser. See you, with love and with hope.
There's a strange thing about silence. A variation and meaning of its own.
For a mountaineer, silence is the pacific warmth of conquering frosted crests. In a house with kiddiewinks, silence is the surmise for the gales to howl. For an artist, silence is filling hues to imagination. For a writer, silence is a secluded room to communicate with the void. Silence is discipline for students in school. In the silver screen, silence defines the goosebumps of panic. For a girl in the dark, silence is the echo of her palpitating heart. For a lone man, silence is the incessant knock to fill spaces. Silence, in a connubial life, with a smile is a sweet gesture of admiration. Or an aloof silence, can be the trembling edge of a contradictory relationship.
Silence can be a smiling summer; or a call for the tempest. It can also be the reminisce of autumn; or the sparkling white bed of snow.
For me, silence is a stroll through the green in the countryside, humming frivolous tunes with classical guitar playing in mind; silence is swaying with the breeze and frills levitating, feeling paused between time and space. It is the beauty of expanded horizon, colourful springs peeping across the curls. Silence to me, is the shade of willows that bends majestically to greet. Silence is tracking the shadow of clouds floating in spreaded turquoise. It is, witnessing the setting yolk finally changing the colour of the veil. It is an escape to the fields of less populace, away from the abiding cacophony.