I speak with a mouthful of coarse sand in my mouth and you struggle to listen, sometimes succumbing to the temptation of playing a song in your head. I realized it only hurts when I’m breaking. Not after I’m broken. It’s over now. It’s okay now. I hope it is.
Now the mundane notes resonate in every corner. Even memories. Everything is smooth and on its way to going back to how it was.
I found a way back to be who I was. Lesson learnt – don’t try to be who you’re not. People with overworked brains and under learnt hearts are not meant to fall in love. I am not meant to stand on my toes and steal a kiss. But I am also not meant to be miserable and shed tears. I either find a way to be okay on my own or I perish in this overwhelming mess of nerves and emotions. The masochist in me wants to relive all hurt and humiliation over and over again, make sad, beautiful poetry. But the realist wants to get on with life, may as well. The slate is on its way to be clean and the bandages are coming off. This is the end of an era, I say tacitly too. So guess who’s winning.
Tomorrow will be just like today. And yesterday. Tomorrow and days after tomorrow. They’ll all be the same. And then I will fall in love again. Set myself up again. Write poetry again. And then lose all again. But yes, I will do it all over again – til I run out of the last thread, til I have breath to spare, til I run out of poetry, til there is no me.