tired mood drops fist blows eyes faded behind hysterical tears that’s what it is –hysteria—not panic not anxiety just beside myself barely balancing on anything real tiptoeing through mine fields timers set with my own hands under grey skies I surmise what might be and why just to pass the act of time stroking my will like trying to calm a child breathing in and out if only to console the awareness of being alive of persisting of swallowing ten pounds of pain for every one milligram of medicine to fight it struggle is the most base animal function to motivate survival of course this suffering is pure spirit of course the spirit is built by the brain a thin sheath of skin overlaying the utter physicality of neurons like a watch that creates time hysteria beside myself inconsolable as in the pain of lightening is piercing my core like a reality you can’t grip with your mind and can barely hold within your body.
-i want coffee runs at midnight and random texts at 3 pm about dumb things that go through your head during the day. i want horror movies while you cover your eyes and recoil behind my shoulders but insist that you weren’t that scared when i call you out on it. i want getting lost in a foreign city and our phones are out of battery and all we have is each other and the beautiful alien scenery as we try to find our way back. i want petty fights about mundane things and screaming at each other and slamming of doors but i become yellow when you are red brightening up your dark days and you love me all the same. i want awkward first times while our mixed anxiety and hesitation strangles us up in a corner but a brief eye contact puts both our demons at ease and the world feels much lighter. i want spending hours in museums trying to find the perfect artefact that we can make a meme out of and the security guard gives us a warning stare as we run through greek sculptures amongst the gods and the semi-humans all the greatest tragedies and love sonnets in one room. then there is you then there is me trying to find a middle between two extremes.
Loving you is not expecting something from you; is simply waiting for you, silent, night and day.
Loving you is not demanding of you, it is not forcing you, It is not to pressure you, it is not to convince you, It is not defeating yourself; is to help you free yourself from yourself, of me, of everything, is to lend you my breath, to seduce you without desires, or objectives, is to enjoy yourself.
Loving you is not reject your flaws; is to make me sensitive to them and make you sensitive to them, never expecting you to change them.
Loving you is not take refuge in your person; is to build a shelter together, with our own hands, where the whole world can fit.
Loving you is not wishing be the center of your life; is to drive you, If you let me, if I can do it, to the life of your center, without seeking rewards.
Loving you is not giving up to my dreams for you; is waking up from my dreams, with you, taken from your hand.
Loving you is not flattering you is not puffed up, It is not weakening you is not to get your attention, it is not confusing you; is to show you worth of your shadow, the wonder of your own light, is to help you live alert, is wanting you to fly while I look at you, absorbed, happy.
Loving you is not fearing you is not owning you, it is not guarding you, It is not watching over you; is hugging you warmly, is to open my door for you, is to observe you in full light, in total darkness, with the soul's eyes.
Loving you is not just looking at you, smell you, or taste you; is looking with you at the same time anything, make me one with your smell, be part of you.
Loving you is not tell you that I love you, It's not to think that I loved you that I will love you; is asking myself Yes I love you, is to feel it, leaving let it develop in me, without any need to tell you.
Loving you is not always be by your side, It is not always thinking of you It is not always dreaming of you; is to be available to you, is to be you, to become one with you, is to be aware of your dreams, and of mine with you, is to allow know me completely to the very center of my pain, and of my love.
Loving you is not look at you from above, or from below, from behind, from the front; is to cultivate a balance that again and again feel what happens for our common center.
Loving you is not projecting ideas about you is not idealizing yourself; is to see you from afar, from close, from within (from you), from outside, see you from beyond me.
Loving you is not loving you only when you love me, when you're pretty when you smile at yourself, when you kiss me, when you caress me, when you walk gracefully, when you are calm, when you are happy; is to accept you whole As you are, always and everywhere, with simplicity, gladly.
Loving you is not writing you my love poems; is to be love when I write to you, and when not.
Loving you is not writing that I love you; is to share with you the best of me (love), no return, without horizon...
You're a room, dressed in pink curtains, and mauve bed sheets. Your cherry blossom candles, and rose champagne glasses, that dulce aftertaste, somehow makes me weep. A handful of flowery, sweet daydreams, too sublime to last long. So I suffocate them, beneath my throat, mistaking them for, sober hallucinations, sweet enough to succumb to oddly bitter pills.
You're a sky, dressed in dawn, but why do you lament, such a dusky melancholy? Magnolias whisper, your windy wisps, amidst subtle pastel days, you bury cataclysmic nights. But how long will you hide, your tragedy from twilight, when the aurelia covers, everything wide?
You're an ocean, of dainty seashells, hiding meekly, beneath the weighing sand. I picked you up, on my scarred palms, but you were too delicate, to adorn my scars. A world too colossal, for your timid strides, so you are rather safe, in the sandy hide.
You're the mangata, of some selenophile's dream, struggling to get through, the moon's heavy tides. Oh the poets, might not see your grief, utopian fantasies, are all you define. And now who am I, to not let you go, after all you're too fragile, to even hold on to.
I know that you do not exist in this world as of right now. However the Many Worlds theory of quantum physics argues that everything that can happen, will happen; across infinite alternate realities. So think of this as a love letter across parallel universes, from a universe where you don't exist to a universe where you do. And maybe, just maybe there's a world where I only exist in your mind, just as you do to me right now. As you can see, lately I've been using science as a foil to fight my inner conflicts and shakespearean dilemmas. Hamlet would've found schrödinger's thought experiment very intriguing, to say the least. The idea of being both alive and dead would've really appealed to him. Perhaps to be and not to be is the answer. ...I don't know what I'm trying to prove here. I don't even know what I'm trying to say. What I can, however, attempt is to embody you as a stand-in for every writer who has left this platform. It's equally baffling as all the schrödinger's hypotheses. You are here, yet..you aren't. Like an empty set, a space enclosed by set brackets. A sense of superposition seeps in your deactivatedness, of both being and unbeing. I get it, this tiny universe of ours has changed. For better or for worse, that is subjective. What started off as a farm where we plucked ripe words that fell off from the old yet growing branches of feelings, is slightly becoming more..commercialised, more mass-produced, pumping out processed wordy poems without any heart to dictate them. And this is precisely why I ask you to return. Once, the nib of my favourite pen had broken. I had the nib alone replaced, of course, but the question still lingered- is this still the pen that I'd known and loved? Will its barren iridium tip embrace the world of paper and dreams, will it become fertile with ink again? I didn't know the answer then, but I did come to understand much later that the pen is merely a consequence, a cultural medium that is dependent on the hands of its holder. I think it's fair to say that the same applies to this world of ours too. And I think I'm coming to understand why this place now has a "quill" in its name and a pen nib as its symbol. Just because there's a difference in the way it used to be, doesn't mean that it's still not our world anymore. I might even go so far as to say that our attitude towards this world has changed much more than the place actually did. Places don't change, people and feelings do. So please come home.
Of course in the realm of overarching possibilities, cannot-ness cannot exist. I'm quite confident that the possibility of you returning, can happen. I can only hope that it will. Yours, @wine_mirrors
three girls, they said, but, there's only one under the sheets with me; the other two, were fairly impressed with the idea of coition inside the bathtub, both had a thing for each other, like two scissors nosing into each other's business, mutual cocaine interest — we bonded over a sickening addiction, the death will be televised; you've to die to be immortalised.
is it the time to bid farewell, or, is it the time to stay up because, these groupies go down quicker than brown liquor; trading the pressure for momentary pleasure, and, the lights flicker as the seizure settles. and, one of them spilled cranberry beer on the floor, inches away, from kicking her out of the door; maybe my head is losing its edge, as the flashbacks backfire, but, hopefully these girls act like bullet-sponges when the firepower kicks in.
the room service was set to barge in through the door; same old crying and sobbing, the groans and the wails, the howling moan that echoes through the hotel corridors; waitress hollering, and soon one of the girls, dialled on the police — good god almighty, she didn't know the person she was trying to save herself from, until her cranium was mushed with the telephone receiver; the other two, they fled the scene through the front door, now, the entire hotel crew is inside the living room; this wasn't in my suicide plan, quickly lock myself inside the master bedroom and —
she walks down the corridor, her dark brown coat flapping and books clenched against her chest. a poem reciting itself in her mind, her fingers aching to write it down, she walks faster. only to bump into a cliché. her hardcover books thumped on the carpet and four hands started gathering them. one pair pale and trembling the other rather blueish but steady.
she looked into the most forgettable brown eyes and the poem was knocked off from her mind. she bit her tongue. back on their feet they're having a staring contest; he wins. he flicks her on her forehead and walks past her, his way. she lost the contest but she can't take her eyes off him, now that he's not looking. the voices start blurting again, new but stupid verses.
theres a lady on the fm talking about today's weather, sunny with a side of grief. she's looking out her window, a light warm breeze caresses her skin, the insects are alive; just yesterday she caught something crawling on the tiles. some boys pass by on their bicycles, laughing about some joke the smartass made. one of them looks up, then waves. she's frozen. he sits behind her in math. they're gone. the air is quiet again. it almost feels like a studio ghibli movie if only her milk skin didn't have loneliness sewn with colourful thread in it.