• _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 14w

    Someone I'll find. Eventually.

    These are my skies. I have them draped in graffiti because I was tired of not being able to decide what I saw when I looked up. There were always only two plots to choose from, anyway - gloom or gloom. I envy people who can look up and trace and find unicorns and candyfloss and smiles with their clouds.For me, they've always looked like distorted mirror images of daggers and pottery gone wrong. I'd realized this celestial, divine modern art was not for me and I stopped looking at the sky for very long. I did not want to acknowledge my fears. But I want you to know that my palms get sweaty, I can't walk straight and I spend 23 hours every day trying to undo the nightmares that the sky above me weaves. And the last time, I looked at the sky, I was blindfolded - busy making my skies like me. And now, my skies do not sparkle in cycles. They do not exchange blue for crimson and crimson for black because they don't have to.

    When the blue moon glittered on the edges of my nails last night, and my iris did not want to drown in any more light, I do not know how but I landed up in this dream. I do not dream often. It is a "once in a blue moon" occurrence {pun (un)intended} but I remember every pixel of what I saw last night. It is engrained on every inch of my memory reel. I do not know what it means but I think it led me to you. It was all brilliantly bright - so bright, I could not see my own fingers and there was a very distinct siren wail in the background. I slid through what looked like a library of memories - butterflies locked in jars, half-eaten toasts, shattered wreathes and in the end - a ring. Then came the embrace. The water held me tight by my hips and even though i could not breathe, it felt like I wanted to stay there - amidst the coral and weed. The siren wail was gone and it was almost as if the water itself was singing to me, very meekly yet adamantly, as if it wanted me to remember - " Auburn hair. Letter. You must. "

    It is funny how ever since I learnt to write, the word "solace" has brought me to you. I have not given you a shape or skin colour but I have known your lips on my scars. I have felt like we know each other across hamlets and universes and even if my heaviness does not collide into your home some night, you will be the only one I run to, when the streetlights become jammed and my hands can't move from under the lampshade. I have thought of you like the wind, breathing into my ears and reminding me, I am not alone. I have known you as the laughter in my crayons. It is a miracle but for once, you reassure me of owning a home. It is a miracle but for once, I think I have known love. It is a miracle but for once, I have started to like the rains.

    There are a million stories I have wrapped and thrown under the thickest journal I possess that lies unlabelled under the weight of love letters I've written to myself because everytime I've tried reading them aloud to people who tell me they "love" me, I've been reciprocated with confused glares and detachment floating between our breaths. Often, "fiction", mama tells me is the genre of these stories but how do I tell her that her daughter has swum across every word that makes them ? I have grounded these stories in my golden cage of exulansis. I don't speak of them anymore. And things that I don't speak of, I write because when I am gone, I would like to be unravelled. I would like to come undone in the hands of someone and make them weep. I would like my pages to get wet in their tears and I would like them to think of me in their sleep and say - "I wish I'd found her sooner because I love her. " but when I peek at you through my window and I look at the gleam in your eyes, I find hope and you'll probably make it happen before I'm gone, right ?

    I know, I am acatalepsy personified. I know that no matter how hard you try, you will never be able to get to the bed of my ocean and I don't expect you to, either but with me, things will never be difficult. Because I read. When you walk into the café to see me for the first time, it will not be difficult to spot me. My hair will be loose and I will have to keep tucking it behind my ear because tying it into a bun would mean, letting go of the book in my hands. My coffee will be begging for attention as my eyes tear through pages of a bestseller I grabbed on my way there and my face will give away the plot. If the plot is sad, you will find me holding a handkerchief to my nose beacuse it runs faster than my eyes. If the characters are growing with the story, I will smile and laugh and garner stares from the old lady sitting opposite to me. My heart will turn into a tachyon and I will fall in love with the male lead faster than the speed of light. You may have to do something to catch my attention at first but when you have, you will have all of me. It will not be difficult to start a conversation. Ask me about the last book i read or why I love Murakami or what I understood of the Ulysses. It will not be difficult to go shopping because I spend more on books than clothes. It will not be difficult to pick a present. You can gift me books for Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries and it will never be difficult to fall asleep next to me because I will read you my favourite poems every night. It will never be difficult to fall for me, not because I read but because I write.

    I am not innocent. I am hungry and I am bored. I am fierce for there is nothing I want more than the sunlight shining on my neat hair, rejoicing in starbursts. I have desperately waited. Not for someone. Not for something. I have waited because that's all I have learnt to and sometimes I fear that I'll be dead and no one will remember to close my eyes and even in death, I'll wait for that's all I'd have learnt. And you took one look at me and broke the earth open for desire. No one can storm my heart to surrender and though, I am not innocent, I was not taken. I left. The footprints on the mud near your mile-high gates are mine. Walking for you felt nice. It felt like you coaxed spring from inside of me.

    There is no single quiddity to me. I do not come down to something as mundane as my "essence". I am all over everything. I collect rags to sew them to my scrapbook and look at them transition to your portrait. I walk over pearl bridges and I forget to turn the room heater off. I can be dancing among the sunflowers one moment and the next, you will find me at war with my ideals trying to figure what amounts to nothingness or inspidity. You will hear me singing melodies to the larks and voicing what many render as "tacenda" between my syllables. My colours are as raw as the beetroots we dug up this morning and as ripe as the honey trickling from the comb of your sun-hued eyes. I have made peace with being in the Japanese "Ukiyo". I can be the tide retreating and swallowing your pain but on days that I go rogue I wish you don't leave me. I wish you caress my wounds with more pride than you flaunt my accomplishments. I wish you hold on to me when I roar and scratch and hurt you so you can dance to my poems when they begin to sing for you.

    ~ Yours,
    Someone who'll find you. Eventually.


    @bluepuppy01 @ablaze_writer - Your dares. aah. done :")
    @daphnae - answer to your "truth" question (๑´•.̫ • `๑)
    CHALLENGE HOSTED BY @cyan_rose
    @ikigaii - Tried your challenge toooo. Thanks a tonne for it (•ө•)♡
    @writersbay #tidec

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