_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

By believing passionately in something that yet does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired. ~ Kafka

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  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 2d

    / Achilles' Heel /

    To you, the begetter of my words, the colour of my palette, the annunciator of my obsessions.
    To you, and to the blurred outline of the flowers we grew and almost let die that summer.


    i) Jāy-e shoma khālīst. Jāy-e shoma khālīst. Jāy-e shoma khālīst
    Persian, I have come to learn is a language of unrefined desire, of crude childlike yearning
    Pardon me, I am no linguist, no academic, no seasoned scholar
    And yet the only coherent words I know of this foreign tongue propel my fragmented belief.
    In my relentless pursuit of the right words to document my unroofed feelings of "wish you were here" yesterday,
    I encountered this vaporous, unfeigning phrase. Jāy-e shoma khālīst
    I fear I twist these fragile words in the direction opposite to meaning in my attempt at translation.
    Not everything feels like something else but the closest English gets is "your place is empty"
    This is the desperation of love, its unpretentiousness.
    And your place is empty still, but there is light. There is light.

    ii) As someone addicted to the emancipation in writing, I often find myself at a crossroads
    On these lifeless stretches of white, I may write my best or worst verse but I must tell a story -
    Often, it is my own. But as a poet I must disguise it. So I do. I do.
    I transmute it into a story writhing in a glass bottle, thrown into the vast blueness,
    having come rolling onto my sands, under my stiff toes
    I must tell the story without belonging to it, without acknowledging my attachment to it, without confessing a word, without embracing my shame.
    But tonight, I do not call myself a poet. I do not affiliate myself to anything but you.
    So, let me bare. Oh ! Let me bare this heart that beats in excess, spilling, overflowing, outpouring its insides everywhere
    For I can go days on my own, tending to my emotional wounds, becoming molten within - without so much as a sigh
    And yet the moment I am offered tenderness, the moment a faint probability of your presence looms over, I break down. I crumble. I disintegrate. I am ruined
    There is no sufficient metaphor for it.

    iii)  I was nine, uncivil and starved when I realized what my biggest fear was
    I feared that my intrinsic existence, my natural being was immutably predisposed to forgetting
    I found it to be a wretched, wretched universal conspiracy
    It haunted me that I couldn't remember how it felt opening my eyes for the first time
    Or how it felt pronouncing my first coherent syllables
    So, I educated my senses, I recast them ~
    To see the world in a  kind of slow motion - embalming, preserving every moment in transit,
    To assign extraordinary significance to mundane acts and thoughtless gestures, to enhance every silhouette, every unnecessary detail
    To romanticise every ending, create poetry where it does not exist
    And whether or not we admit, that is what writers do.
    Today I am sixteen - uncivil and starved yet. But, I no longer fear forgetting.
    I fear being the only one who remembers.
    I fear if I was reborn, I would cry for the first time because I would still remember your name and you wouldn't be there. You wouldn't be there.

    iv) Sometimes in my juvenile itch, I just wish to sit with you in utter, devastating silence for a few moments -
    Feet hung over a creek, swinging in unintended synchronicity,
    Moments where, bearing no allegiance to gravity,
    In our little minds we're flying, we're free
    But since we cannot, let me tell you my favourite story
    The tale of love of Patroclus and Achilles  -
    A love that stirred the Heavens, shook the Gods, a love that rings for eternity -
    "They loved. They died."
    What then , was Achilles' true heel ?
    Aut shouldn't I say ~ the tale of love of You and Me ?
    The tale of love of You and Me.

    A poem of crime - a testament to the parts of me I have killed, so we can live || 25.11.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 2w

    Credits : Caroline Myss, a couple of posts i read on tumblr

    @sumiinked @puranidiary @_firefly @reflections__ @salted_peanuts

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    / Bacchanalia /

    I believe there is something very romantic, very transcendental in the fistful moments that precede a violent end
    They hold an inherent tragic softness because
    Knowing the skyfall just before it disasters your destiny
    liberates you from the mundanness of life
    And maybe doom is the universe's way of saying - "Oh the world is ending, darling.
    Anarchy is priceless. Run to your childhood love, bruise for your passions.
    Rebel, rebel, rebel, oh gremlin child ! For now, heaven's upside down, twice as beautiful. Tonight, the Gods are no less mortal. They cease where you do.
    So, weave crowns of grass blades and
    let your hair tangle in knots and curls around daisies "
    And in those brief fleeting moments of fragility,
    the world is so much more liquid, so much more brilliant
    And everyone is singing their hallelujahs, doing the mortifying for someone
    and invoking Homer when he said - "Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again"
    I sit here now, knee-deep in my grief, devouring my own insides
    Not much unlike the manner in which the last, dying soft white flames of a fire lick the bleached, damp driftwood
    I fear this is a relapse I am unprepared for
    I read somewhere that there is no greater desire than the wounded's need for another wound and it has remained with me
    I continue to spiral in the negative space bound by the painful episodes of my life,  in a chokehold, at the mercy of the power my wounds hold over me
    Because my pain allows me to lay myself down like a rucksack bridge and enter other people -
    Through the burnt edges and raw ulcers crowding their hearts
    And in my terrible longing, I find myself irrevocably addicted to this intercourse
    On some nights, I will chainsmoke these heavy, porous paper rolls of poetry and literature
    And get unusually loud, opinionated but emotionally tender
    On nights like these I will command witness to my vulnerablilty through words
    And welcome you to the Bacchanalia in my head
    On nights like these, I am afraid for I think I leave little wisteria trails of - "Love me, please,"
    Like invisible packets of static electricity dissipating unacknowledged
    On everything that touches me -
    On small, sweaty palms and park benches
    On threadbare book covers and tarnished silverware
    On nights like these, everyone looks like a child to me -
    Running into my life with pink laughter and pockets full of posies,
    Ringing around the roses with me
    Until the time, I am the only one to fall down - the only one to remember
    On nights like these, I will convince myself that in loving, I have sinned
    and I hope for no absolution, no remission
    My love has offended the Gods, upset my archangels
    But the Armageddon has come to an end I am prepared for Judgement
    Because I learnt all too well, all too soon that love is death spelt backwards in the tongue of the Heavens
    I find it fitting to mention that when Adam bit the apple it was because Eve told him to
    It was because the bliss of her was dearer to him than a commandment of God
    And he was punished not for his non-conformity but because
    God couldn't live knowing that Adam had loved a woman more than his Creator,
    He couldn't live with the knowledge that just before Adam bit the apple he had thought -
    " But what greater Heaven than in the arms of Eve ?  "
    God was outdone. God was afraid. God was jealous.
    So maybe, we are never returning to Eden.
    So maybe, on some level, we are all sinners
    For in all our bleeding, and kissing under hazy streetlamps and dancing in the strobe lights, we have loved, haven't we ?
    And we all know how that one goes.

    Ring around the roses || 12.11.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 4w

    Idk what im on to. This is real though I've changed names - of places and people and things. Introductory stories are fun, aren't they ?

    @poeticgirl @_firefly @puranidiary @salted_peanuts @natasha_a

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    / Home /
    (Diary Entry #2)


    " Somewhere, beyond frantic yells and heavy skies, there is a home with iron at its heart -- listening intently to the little waves of treble my footsteps create everyday because there are magnets lodged in my ribs. There is a home that absorbs the faint orange sunlight with its linoleum and wards off gloom with hundreds of little windchimes. There is a home I will fill with books on death, terror and love and loss and poetry and gardening. There is a home that will allow my heart to swell and then help me rinse off the mud from over my heels. There is a home where I will be held by the person I choose. There is a home I will build with them, in them and to that home my heart is a slave and to my heart that home is. Someday, I will finally belong ", I scribble onto my faithful, modest journal/diary. It's spine is replete with evidence of its loyalty and my impulsive nature. It is now, almost naked like a newborn with only a few patches of black leather to boast of (where you would suppose hair for the baby). 

    I remember the first time I laid my hands on it a year ago at a "₹100 for anything" thrift store. The shopkeeper had taken a liking to my mother (most middle aged men and women tend to, for reasons unknown and unknowable to me) and as she hastily picked up a few things which seemed utterly unimportant to me, he came up to me. His hair was slicked back and I could tell he had received a splendid head massage from his wife or mother who had been overly generous with the coconut oil last night. His teeth were stained a dirty brown from the excessive paan-chewing that is characteristic of a lot of shopkeepers, here in Siyahi. There was a strange kindness in the way his eyelashes fluttered when he looked at me. For a minute or so, we both just looked at each other - without any emotions to speak of. It was a beautiful moment nevertheless, for we both knew the other was only bent, with utmost sincerity on finding what it was that was being seeked. When he began to speak in his thick, unapologetic Bengali accent, I found myself listening. "Āsā", he swayed his unbothered left arm in the air and motioned for me to follow him, assuming I would understand and oblige. We stopped at an aisle in the back of the store. It smelt of pleasantness - of dust filtering through cardboard boxes, of old pages and new stories. For a few minutes, I quietly observed the tiny jungle of memories this part of the store hid in its lungs. I realized Dada had taken a hefty decision in the brief moments we had exchanged glances. He had found something in me that had allowed him the courage to induct me into his personal life, to let me in on family secrets, tokens and charms from his childhood and intimate tales of his past. When he had asked me to follow him, he wasn't leading me to a place, he was silently asking me to follow him to a cubicle in his heart. He was hoping I would understand and oblige. He was saying - "I trust you, kid."

    There is always something terribly beautiful, and awfully overwhelming in the realization that a stranger trusts you, that they hold you higher than you hold them -- as a stranger. To be the object of affection of someone is always beautiful though its beauty is perhaps underrated. So, in that moment in time a sudden wave of unexplainable gratitude hijacked my emotional being. I felt as if Dada was, by all means, worthy of more respect than I was giving him. I think that is when I warmed up to him. Human connection works in mysterious ways. For a long time to come,  I would remember him as the man who had given to me without a word, my most prized possession in the years of my youth.  I never learnt his name in the years to come. Which is to say,  I had never tried to and it never bothered me. To me, he was Dada - a father figure.

    By this time, Dada had been successful in producing whatever it was that he had been wanting to produce. This I knew from the fact that his face had crinkled up with childish joy. His temples glistened with sweat that he continuously dabbed out with a neatly folded white handkerchief which I presumed, his loving wife had thoughtfully ironed, perfumed and slid into his baggy trousers the very same morning. His cheeks glowed a light pink and he looked as pleased with himself as one is capable of looking. He smiled giddily and took three long strides to reach me. I smiled at him too. Sensing, he had given too much of himself away, he attempted to hide his excitement. He failed terribly. His eyes couldn't stop the fireworks. 

    I shamelessly extended my tiny hands forward and he placed on them, the journal I now talk of so fondly and as he did, he said - "Maa gave this to me on my 16th jonomdin (birthday). I miss her and how she would run through the streets barefoot, the pallu of her linen sari in one hand and my lunch in the other, calling me shona (=gold. A term of endearment). She loved poetry. I never understood her or her writing or writers in general but I know you're one. The kind that grow awfully sad awfully young. The kind that shrivel quickly and bloom harder with every morning. I must call you phoolkumari ( the flower princess)." I felt naked right then. I have given it thought and there is no better word for the feeling. I just felt naked. Someone had seen through all the walls I had erected around me all my life. He turned around and though I couldn't see him, I was pretty sure he was attempting to hide his tears. He finally managed to say, "I see her," before taking a pause and adding "in you."

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 4w

    Credits : Geoffery Hill (the hell line)

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    / Cyanide /

    This is a song of revolution, a strum of hope
    And baby, you must let me kiss my idle conviction onto the skinbreak under your left eyebrow
    You call November to your rooftop and whisk into its listless, ancestral territory like a heroine
    But you shrink, and you shrink and you shrink like overwashed linen
    You count the inches of love on your waist when you must count the cruel, merciless winters they've helped you live
    So, let me hold you up to the firelight at the far end of this alleyway
    And remind you of the starbursts and rainbows your melting laughter gives
    You're the raspy voice that doesn't falter when the sunbeams cease and the curtains fall
    And darling if we met in hell, it wouldn't be hell at all

    Oh ! You of the tainted feverish skies
    and untamed graffiti on semi-urban walls
    I know you've dreamt of Syrian girls with crooked teeth
    and crushing crayons with Warhol
    Your blood thrives on arson, you lick hate like propane under the October snow
    and set yourself aflame
    You are treason. The treason of an artist ~
    a faceless artist with a calloused heart and a disease without a name
    You're addicted to the terrible glory of perpetual torment, the banality of pain
    (And baby, I'd rather let you lick a little cocaine)

    Oh ! You of a hundred years of longing
    and a hundred flavours of resurrection
    You sit by funerary ash and cemeteries because they remind you
    Of your inconsequentiality, the brilliant fragility of your humanness freckled like the flowers of the sun
    Because it eases you to know that the earth is desperately holding on to love entrails, terrified of letting go too
    You bake sweet potatoes - all terracotta red, childishly warm and wrapped in peels of hope
    And baby, I swear you make me delirious
    like the smell of an archaic romance running cold


    Oh ! You of the rosen unstirred clouds
    and the golden threads of an unsung tapestry
    What a shame it is that you must not be allowed to see your own divinity
    That you must not be allowed to witness the lifetime of  fireworks in your eyes
    When you
    talk of Ares and Aphrodite and Icarus and when you mouth ~
    "Does the fall really matter to him who flew ?"
    That you must not be allowed to bear testimony
    to the sempiternal fire in the centre of your breastbone and how it paints your cheekskin the warmest tones of pink from the inside
    And baby, you could steal the breath of a crippled nation's God faster than cyanide

    To girls and boys with freckles and tattoos || 27.10.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 4w

    Old and stupid. I never wrote this as a piece of literature intended for an audience but it is what it is. I'm sorry y'all

    @puranidiary @_firefly @aperture @natasha_a

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    / Periwinkle /
    ( Diary entry #1 )


    We are not one with this world. We are not who we are and we might not be who we are unless we stop trying to. What I mean by that, I'm unsure of but I think I read somewhere - maybe it was yesterday or on my birthday last year or maybe I never really did but I think great works and obsessive art and words often say more than they're conscious of saying. I suppose its Friday but that's alright. The Sky changes colours and I think I see it a little more closely than I should but I'm tired of the Periwinkle its been for nine days straight now and I do not think it is a coincidence that a flower by the same name is called "The Flower of Death". The Italians are ingenious people afterall. I'm beginning to wonder if colour blandness is a disease too. I remember when I was - well I don't actually. She used to say the sky is sometimes wine red and a little wild sienna if you look at the right time and if you find a pastel purple mixed with a little burgundy and umber, you'd want to think of her and eat your favourite ice cream. I never quite understood her until she was gone. I think that's where you'll find me - at the point she abandoned me, if you tried looking for me, which I know you won't because you're not her and I'm afraid she'll be disappointed but I haven't been able to look at her ever since the day she selfishly decided to turn off the sun for me. She left me like that dress I tore the other day and then wrapped myself in while - I'm a little apprehensive of saying it, its been a habit actually - CRYING.

    I think there is something very unsettling about death. Perhaps that is why we keep returning to the graves of those we love - when the bitter dark unflowery nights return, when spring sets foot again, when the rains fail to wash away their faces from our bosoms, with crisp sunflowers and friendly diasies and all the flowers they loved and the ones they hated hoping they'd sneeze at our face one more time. No, they will not smile at us another time, we will not cry with them again, there is no chance we can have our arms around them in an embrace once more, no one will ever again be able to tell us why they wrote that poem or what that painting they hid under their bed meant. To believe that the starlight we had drunk to fill the void between our ribs is gone, leaves us more abysmal than we could imagine we were capable of being. To realize we didn't listen to the songs they told us to when we should have and now we're crying over those very ones, and their absence inundates our head with sudden new, added meaning to those words and sounds - it brings more regret than gratitude. Death. Even saying the word twists my spine. Death. I think I have a bone to pick with you.

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 6w

    Credits : I read a few of @samarlexis 's works before writing this. Also, Flannery O' Connor and Ocean Vuong and Qiu Miaojin.

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    / Psychedelia /

    But what am I ?
    Perhaps, a chapel of remembrances - of overdramatic monologues, of sun-streaked smiles and palliative words
    When I first confessed my love for you,
    I had preconceived notions of how my afflictions would cause me to relent
    How the confession would be a rite of passage, a coming of age
    And maybe it was. Maybe it was.
    But it was so many things. So so many things. It was a second Genesis.
    A very un-primeval, postmodern one.
    It was a moment of grace, the way Flannery O' Connor taught me.
    I could, in that moment transcend sanctification or whittle into stripped apostasy
    It was as if I had impaled the sky and the blunt, burnt holes along its nudity
    Were a testament to my psychedelia.
    If by psychedelia, you mean the way I now find relics of you in everything remotely, distantly, subtly peaceful
    If by psychedelia, you mean the way I metamorphose words into paperback cities I'd wager for you
    If by psychedelia, you mean the way I imagine us - two little children running away from their napalm childhoods into fairytale sidewalks and firework skies. Untouched. Fireproof.
    And if by psychedelia, you mean something along the stunted lines of love.
    In the 3 older drafts of this poem that I have since discarded, there was this line
    That I find myself oddly attached to -
    "Then maybe, with all these words as splinters of wood and my life as the fundament,
    I am attempting to build you a memorial, a shrine of sorts, "
    You see, I imagine (rather optimistically) that a couple of years from now
    Having known well, the landscape of sorrow, we will slip into a mutual medium of joy
    And on a fine evening, watching the Mississippi sunset
    We will retrieve these words, words from a reticent, pretentious girl
    Addressed to a philosophical, tragically beautiful boy
    And you will realize how we have waited - my words and I,
    In dear anticipation of you - your smile and you.
    You came to me, very distinctly, like a staccato pitched in the dark from the west
    for undomesticated wayfarers to taste
    You reminded me of the warm smell of ancient holiday homes on long coastlines,
    Of oversized, hand-knit sweaters that last a bit too long
    And of the finiteness of the English language in its inability to capture you
    And I, like light gone translucent or a waned temple bell or a forgotten folk song
    Rushed to mend what parts of me I could ~
    The rebellious, problematic daughter part,
    The unbothered sister part, the unattractive nerd part,
    You get the pattern.
    And what am I now ?
    Perhaps, a poet of ash and abstraction and I would like the poster of this poem
    To say "I love you" in bold, uppercase letters with the finer print reading, "Forever. Always."
    Isn't this how riots begin ?

    Ash and Abstraction || 13.10.2021


    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 8w

    "to say your name and mean just your name" is inspired by ON EARTH WE'RE BRIEFLY GORGEOUS ~ OCEAN VUONG.

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    / Sacrament /

    I want to be able to unclench my fist, detach myself from the trigger
    And get rid of the redundant ammunition, diffusive gunsmoke and
    formless grenades going off within these flesh walls of mine that civilians call a heart
    Do you know that feeling ? When the world seems rose-tinted and waxing perfect
    Yet you do not belong there ~ alongside the cherry wine, the piano chords and placid evenings
    You feel your limbs dissolving and the gravedigger touches your bones
    So the noise of the ache buried in your viscerality becomes undead and reaches a crescendo
    And in that moment you're a monument of the past ; a rusted bicycle with broken handlebars
    A displaced pixel from the present ; driftwood
    A souvenir from the battleground ; a shrapnel
    I am a simple human being. All I want is for this war to end
    All I want is for me to say your name and mean just your name
    And not armament, or heresy or a floodgate of promises and regrets
    Writing has become my Sacrament. And the lines between pain
    and pleasure have started to get blurry. I fear that is how masochism begins.
    I have been meaning to say. The sky is particularly sublime when
    I imagine you're smiling under it. My poems carry more than just
    Inherent meaning because your eyes will touch their untamed alignment
    And in these pages, I am slowly wrapping fragments of (ti)me,
    Like stretches of cottonwool for you to unwind and laugh and cry at
    I must reiterate. It is October.
    October on the bronzed rooftops and under the damp cycle tyres
    October in the ancient hymnals and gilded chocolate wrappers
    October for the hedonistic Gods and the brick red soil
    Yet, in this paper skin, in this terrain of words, we haven't aged a day.
    Not yet anyway.
    In philosophy class, my professor asks what I know of love,
    And I tell him what I know of ours. I tell him it is the sorrow of a stillbirth,
    The tumour two hearts share and the bleached skyline, without the red.
    I tell him it is the 3 things I never said.
    He knows I'm telling the truth though it is one he was hoping not to hear.
    But the truth continues to exist.
    It continues being my weapon of choice.
    How long does this distended love last ? How long can I hoard stolen moments ?
    I fear airplane rides, now. Because maybe, when I look down -
    In the sea of light threads, cities, homes and people I cross, you're a molecule too ?
    I resent my ability to think. I resent this ventriloquism.
    But I will stand, I will wear this snakeskin and I will dream.
    I will wait for the sun to melt into a boiling woodland stream.
    (I will keep reshuffling the rhyme scheme)
    And the rain will taint our shoulders with dirt from beaches and colourful stitches
    But I will lie and I will wait for isn't love immensity ?
    And you, you must hurry.
    Hurry.
    For I am cold. So so cold.

    Shrapnel || 4.10.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 9w

    This one's heavily inspired. Credits where due.
    (Accidentally deleted the post, so reposting :/)

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    / Anti-Hero /

    Often, the absence of a singular fragile daisy
    Doesn't speak enough of the silent virulence digging the forest's grave
    For a poet with a detestable but anguished heart like mine,
    The reason is not hard to reckon
    There is but one truth in our mercurial existence.
    We seek the illusion of permanence. At least I do.
    So when the rain speaks the language of a thousand tormented souls
    like mine because water has memory, I want it to last.
    So when I lose myself in a trance thinking of how i want
    the sunset to filter through the blinds of our springtide landscape,
    I want it to be eternal. I want it to last.
    So in the moments that a dismantled fragment of someone's heart
    Resonates the bland acoustics of my own, I want closure.
    I want things to last.
    And life has worn down so much of the patchwork that I am,
    That I have learnt the skill of not making noise ~
    bleeding discreetly, eroding inconspicuously,
    turning into debris from an emotional gunshot (but with a silencer)
    I have turned unapologetically desperate for relief and tension
    And departure and fuzzy rainbows....that last
    Maybe that is why I use ellipses too.
    You see, when you want things to last, you o v e r s t r e t c h them,
    Sometimes, the strings break. Sometimes, you do.
    I must mention that living is a military effort and life, my assailant
    Because I am ceaselessly divided between loving fiercely
    and being politically correct about it.
    I have been utterly anti-heroic ever since I left the boy I love
    for an intrinsic revolution.
    Additionally, I have come to fear things. Goodbyes, most notably.
    And the time to be lonely in the dark.
    I love the idea of domiciliary peace. I want a home.
    And I have always thought that gravity is only
    Our familial dead calling out to us to rest where we belong, to a soil
    with no perfume of hierarchies or ethics or crime, to the centre of the Earth.
    Grief intensifies the urge to dissociate into the cradle of one's birth
    Maybe that is why a grieving soul feels heavier. Gravity, you see.
    And in the end, as the air dims and the night blurs out of focus
    Into soft shades of pinstriped, tragic love stories
    I want to say,
    I always feel like I'm holding my breath. I hope it lasts long enough
    For us to make it to the surface together before wintertime.
    You see, I'm picking up a fallen daisy.

    Gravity || 24.09.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 10w

    #combination #wod
    Set A
    ☆ What died before death
    ☆ The moment between saying goodbye and leaving
    ☆ A lone girl and a familiar song

    Set B
    ☆ Feel

    @natasha_a @_firefly @reflections__ @shreyah @brain_dump

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    / Holocaust /

    I have persecuted myself for long ~
    But today, I feel a bestial tenderness liquefying within
    the concavities of me
    Perhaps, it is the rain on the harp. Perhaps not.
    But I cannot deny that being reminded the sky has reasons
    to cry too, is oddly liberating, even celestially reassuring.
    The rain has a hundred vernacular names and yet for the unloved,
    It speaks but one language. The language of redemption.
    The redemption in being touched.
    I am a child today ~ irrevocably sad yet undeniably worthy of generosity
    from myself
    So, I will confess. Slowly, through the barbed darkness and fissured light,
    I will confess.
    It is 3:27 a.m. and I find myself nakedly vulnerable - very awake, very dead.
    I am guilty. Of what, I am yet to learn but from how stagnant, affirming the air is
    Around those dreamcatching, and how ruefully morbid it is around me,
    I can tell, my sin is huge and filthy. Perhaps deadly.
    But I commiserate with me and cowardly hope that
    The world will too.
    There is sound, a hiccup, a drumbeat and an exit wound.
    There is a flinch, a plot twisted wrong, a lone girl and a familiar song.
    Since, I have taken to it, I might as well shamelessly add ~
    "I love you"
    I hate to say it but the intoxication of longing often numbs one enough to
    Forget the aftermath of a disfigured confession
    So, maybe the tipsy flustering is only for now
    Dawn is approaching, and I shall be expected
    To fall silent - Discreetly. Unobtrusively. Soon.
    So, perhaps we're headed to a faintly romantic doom but I wish to tell you
    That in the moment between saying goodbye and leaving ~
    As the backdrop slowly pales into a tone of yellow I have no name for, is our forever,
    Our holocaust
    The thing is, there is no theology, no dogma, no dictum, no constitution etched
    When it comes to love
    And yet, we shun the mutability in its architecture.
    To what end, I am not sure.
    There is guilt, a corpse of what died before death and a predator
    There is no hope, a rope, a tremor and a razor.
    There is haze, light-headedness and an inescapable maze.
    There is one more confession I'd like to make,
    Sometimes I think we're an asymptote. There but not quite and
    As pathetic as it may sound, very often, I wish to dream of you.
    To dream of you and me beyond the pitfalls, the winters and the last blue mountain
    I don't know what that means but I know it means something
    There is a summer sun, a kiss and a disoriented boardwalk
    There is a slanting line, some wine, a radio lingering on bare static and love in an attic

    // A relit cigarette always chokes harder, burns longer and tastes better
    As does a reread letter
    A story that shouldn't have been told,
    A story ~ two summers old //

    Confessions || 17.09.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

  • _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 11w

    @shreyah @sumiinked thanks for reminding me to write you guys :)

    Credits : There are parts in the poem, distantly and directly inspired by things I have read. "For you, a thousand times over" is owed to Mr. Hosseini. The "I will love you" part is in my understanding inspired by Lemony Snicket. Credits to them.

    @natasha_a @_firefly @the_lost_melody @sirimiri_ @_elixir

    Read More

    / Holy Grail /

    Tonight, as I think of you,
    Through the sulphurous weather and the defensive petrichor
    There's a shallow pain in my abdomen
    That strikes every few minutes like an abandoned metronome
    Rising through my insides, reminding me I'm obligtorarily fragile, merely mortal, briefly gorgeous
    Perhaps the worst part about losing you,
    (And this is a realization that has corroded me irreversibly)
    Is watching the year slowly undress itself over again
    Without you in it
    The seasons slur on loop - sick springs, silent summers, morose monsoons and ebbing winters
    and my blood rebels within me, like asphalt battling homesick rubber tyres
    Everything reels over itself, repeats, happens again. Except us.
    And all I can do, is write - distastefully, disastrously, deficiently, dreamily
    So I do. I write you around unhealed stitches, and paper cuts and the kinetic wind
    adrift the coral skies
    So, maybe in a few years the air will not be so dizzyingly unbreathable
    And maybe I won't remember this monumentally terrifying night -
    This night where I'm a bouquet of terror with this heavy sprint choking my throat
    As my ribs writhe and my lips tremble in synchronicity with my fingers
    This night where I'm rendered incapacitate of exercising autonomy over my thoughts
    Because no matter how much I try, you rule them
    My words are like the coffee dregs that remain in the clay mug after -
    Enduring, unhappy, precipitous and good- for- nothing
    All they do is fill me with unwavering remorse, nostalgia and love that grows infinitely
    But I write. I write because I want my words to testify that
    I bore this cross even if my spine was giving away , even if the hurt was no longer poetic
    For you, a thousand times over
    So, the whole world can light up torches and scrawl at 3am to strike
    And if there's one thing I've learnt, it's that I will still love you
    I will love you like misery loves an artist and
    I will love you like incoherence loves old age
    I will love you like a bone bare grave loves the sky and
    I will love you like an orphaned infant loves sleep
    I will love you without one string attached and
    I will love you until my love skins me and withers me away -
    Relentlessly, stubbornly, clumsily I will love you, seek you like the Holy Grail
    And the sunspots can fluctuate or burn me through and through
    Yet I will gauge the universe, sift every molecule as long as there's You
    In a world of my own volition, I would run to you right now and still time around us
    And I promise, someday our tangents meet but
    Until then, I write.

    Volition || 12.09.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_