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.
Wouldn’t this world be so beautiful if everyone tried to make everyone else smile? Just by saying a few affectionate words, or by giving away warm hugs for free; the best things in life. It is hard to be in a world that doesn’t love you for who you are, where you have to keep proving your worth, and where you second guess yourself at all times. Where it’s so difficult to keep up with the mundane, and so difficult to catch up on your sleep. Exhausting, really.
How beautiful would the world be if we expressed more fearlessly. If someone made you their home, let you make them yours. So many people would be “cured” of depression if only people expressed love more. What is this need to be tough? Whoever said being stoic is equivalent to being tough? And this need rises above your loved ones (if you are a loved one, indeed).
But just because they don’t express their love, you don’t stop trying. Be generous with your smiles, kisses and kind words. Hug them and tell them they’re amazing. Compliment them even if they resist. All this till you run out of everything sane, till the time your brains explode, and till the time you find the need to nurse your wounds they caused you. And then you retire in a darkness where no one will find you. I never claimed that this was a foolproof plan.
I hope you don’t have to love anyone this much. In a way where your eyes betray your angst, where veil is as thin as your will to hide it. There is an unexplained weight crushing your ribs, as if your breath is struggling to break through your chest. God, I hope you never have to blink away a stinging tear with a big rag ball of helplessness lodged into your throat. Continue reading
It’s 6:54 pm and I’m in a traffic jam. Not stuck, though. I like being caught in jams. It’s a great excuse to be some place without having to interact with people.
The organ plays and I hear Chris Martin crooning.
I miss my left turn and now I am a traffic jam myself. Uh oh.
Chris Martin assures me that lights will guide me home. I trust him.
Back on track, my ride is going to end. I really wish it didn’t have to.
Chris Martin assures me that lights will ignite my bones. I trust him.
Shit, now the slow, painful walk through a dug up road. I walk the fucked up, muddy trail with all my concentration.
Chris Martin promises me that he will try to fix me; that he will fix me. And I trust him.
More than I will ever trust you.
I’m back to where I belong. Behind doors, by myself, spending nights where I don’t cry. But I don’t laugh either. I simply exist. Quietly. Day after day. I ingest food, inhale and exhale, do my other bodily duties and I exist. I don’t fear or love. I rarely find things funny, amusing, or even offensive. I’m okay, though.
Let me tell you, it’s a satisfactory place to be. Although, I miss that sudden surge of happiness and the stabbing pain sometimes. But I shut all that down. Yet again. I’m okay, though.
This night seems like a fair time to bury the box. Now I am back to where days and nights don’t look much different. It’s always nights. Nights that don’t cry or laugh. They just exist, like I do. And I’m okay.
Someday I will know what to do with myself. Someday I will wake up and be okay with everything. Someday I won’t have to deal with a lot of things at the same time. Someday I will find a person I can be vulnerable around. And I don’t, I will at least find a way to be okay by myself. Someday there will be that one day, morning through night, where everything is perfect. And I will make it last for years. It will keep me going. It will rebuild my faith and mend my spirit. It will make me want to wake up. But I need that one day, just like everyone else does. And someday I will either get my one day or I will give up. Either way, I will learn to be okay. Til then, it seems like a long walk.