"We are just collection of atoms that come together for a brief period of time and then we fall apart." - Grace from Chemical Hearts.
This is how i see what i wrote: I have seen him smile when he was a living entity who could express. And since the second i saw his lips opening wide to express his joy, i knew it was love. I loved how alive he was, and how his smile made me smile. Now when i have been ending, my whole life is flashing in front of me and i can see him, feel his presence more than he can. I can see him like the collection of atoms which can not bear the test of time any longer and can not let the atoms be prisoned again in the form of an entity, after he has seen himself age and die young (the sand slipping from hands too porous to be a prison for little specks that have been a witness of weathering). During the times i could actually feel him alive and i could touch him (our photons interfering), i was busy capturing the photons rather than seeing them (was lost in photographs) . I never really criticised mess my life was till i was so lost in the mess that i could not find him anymore, and the world crashed and stood and ran, never stayed (sabotaged entropy, until i was too lost in it to not know that world is fleeting by). And i let him go, he was gone. Can i go back to the photons, the ones i missed but captured; and burn all these memorabilia to move on and revive the reality of past when i was not ending, when i was with him (Can i burn the photographs and revive it from ashes when i cease to end) ?
Love and pain, aestheticity and filters and the colours, black and white are so overrated that you forget about what lies in between - The Ordinary and it is the ordinary things that make the butterflies flutter and blood rushing; it is the ordinary that we hide within fancy words and kill the beauty with knives and pens. The world does not end on love and pain, there's numbness and there's peace there's relief and there's a million tiny emotions unsaid and unread
we are more than a song or a prose- we are Beethoven's tone deafness
we are more than pictures- we are memories trapped inside forgotten Polaroids.
we are more than just mistakes- we are ordinary and peculiar at the same time
I'm in my very early teens when a classmate walks up and looking at my black painted nails she says, "It's a bad women's trait." The elder brother she looks up to has told her that girls who wear black paint aren't virgins and so, my heart sinks. Not at the ridiculousness of it, not at the tragedy of my character being defined by a colour but at the possibility of people seeing me as "impure". I do not paint my nails black thereafter.
I'm 15 now about to choose the stream I'd like to study further when an elder tells me there's no point in dreaming what's beyond your reach. I clench my fists and immediately bite my tongue so it wouldn't talk back.
I'm 16 and my english teacher tells the class that she should not find the word "rape" in our answer scripts for it's too crude. So we write modesty outraged, instead.
I'm 17 and I discover my lip shade is too loud and the depth of my neckline decides whether or not I'm "asking for it". I've worn my lipstick like written apologies ever since.
I'm 18 when the person beside me slips his hand up my waist and I sit there holding my breath too stunned to react. I run towards father to complain but the aunts hold me back. "Boys will be boys", they say "would you ruin the family relation over something like that?" So I clench my fist, bite my tongue and zip it up, once again.
Until I'm 19 and it repeats. Same audacity, same insolence with a different face. But I can't take it again so I turn to the world this time. I write poems to pour it all out. But along with the open arms come the raised eyebrows. "Not all men!" they scream. And I cower back not knowing when did I ever say all men.
I slowly turn back as I watch the world quarrel amongst itself. When did the narrative become all about whom to blame and whom not to blame? Where did my trauma get lost? Why do I have to explain and beg for audience's discretion? Is the audience that naive? Or does it prefer living in denial?
So I stop writing "those" kind of poems thinking I'll return when I have the right kind of poem.
I'm past 20 now and I still do not know what the right kind of poem looks like. I do not know how unafraid I've come to be or how far I'm yet to go but I do know that I do not bite my tongue anymore. I might not throw fists but never again would I clench them just to swallow the poison. I would not explain being a feminist with the disclaimer "I do not hate men" everytime, just so you approve. I would not beg for what's right.
My demands are not requests but they are willing to wait for you to understand that they're anything but unreasonable. For you to realise that there are millions like me and our defiance is not an act of aggression but a cry for consideration. And until that happens, I'll glide the lipstick on my lips like the pen I put my signature with. And I'll wear my nails black better than the distaste you wear on your face at the sight of it.
What hurts in cheating? That they cheated on you or the fact that you never expected them to? That they choose someone else over you or you weren't prepared? That they broke your trust or the mistake of trusting them in the first place?
People usually beg "people" to stay, but, I always begged him to go away. Not because he's toxic, but, I am. He always said he'd stay. Maybe I believed it a little too much, that I was shattered when he did go away. Cheated, actually.
//I always thought that my heart is numb/dead and no one can break it. But, I realized, dead leaves also make a sound when crushed.//
I always said that he couldn't break me, that it is impossible to break something that's already shattered into tiny pieces. But I was wrong, or maybe am not. Maybe he fixed me enough to break me, again. Maybe he loves the sound of heartbreak.
World. The world is too loud, and it's getting worse day by day, louder. Even when it's 3 am where you put your xm4 to shut the noise out, it keeps banging your head, screaming. If this was a perfect world, we should not be even existing in the first place. All of this should have been nothing, not dark, not light, not void but nothing. I wonder what would it feel like, to be nothing. Stripped away from this materialistic and spiritualistic lie to be part of something unknown. A reality that we still haven't dreamed of. We have this habit to fill empty spaces with new things, from empty carts to empty rooms to the void that you feel inside with a stranger.
Crowds. I have noticed that the world is getting crowded. There are more people on the streets, vehicles in a rush to be somewhere. Every moment the six feet of space is filled with another dream, new faces, new sounds, new noise. It is a scary thing sometimes, the idea that there are a thousand more dreams waiting to replace your six feet of space when you fall. It is strange, how we feel claustrophobic in an empty room and lonely in a crowd. Maybe all of this will fall someday, tumble down like a sandcastle and drown as if it never existed. But we are in a rush to be somewhere.
Death. My dog was sick, I don't think he worries about death like we do, even though he is made to survive as long as possible. For me, death is this absence of something, something so personal that it's hard to explain to someone else why it is that you miss someone or something. I miss the cute noises my cat used to make whenever he dives into the Whiskas even when he was full. He is part of the soil now, every part of his existence slowly disintegrating into things that aren't alive, paving the way to new life. Death is this absence of familiarity, a touch, a smile, a text, a voice, long pauses, late nights, the way you used to feel... Sometimes it is a scary thing, not knowing the exact moment when you feel the absence. But we romanticize about it, the late nights when it is not so scary anymore because the warmth that you feel is so personal, like the waves that always come back to the shore.
Meaning. It's such a wonderful thing when you think about it, how the dead things collectively come together and become alive. Alive, to feel the happiness, the sadness, the pain, the suffering, and then the inevitable death to go back and disintegrate into dead things, waiting to be alive again. This part of you that is alive carries memories of this universe, the journey from the big bang through the vast emptiness to finally settling down on this planet. From some chemical reactions on the ocean to single-cell organisms to apes to our ancestors. We carry the footprints from the past, past we have never seen but deeply connected to. Perhaps that is why some of us feel a deep connection with the ocean, a sense of tranquility about the waves that feels so personal. I wonder you feel the same.
I want to make a nest for us, I want to keep you in my blanket and wear your fragrance, I want people to talk to me about you and nothing else, I don't want to discuss work or flowers, I want to talk about how she fills my heart with joy and purpose, how she is so understanding and fun to be with, how I have stood and never looked beyond her shoulders, when her eyes look all pink, I loose my stability, I want them to know how holding you is a treat and I don't get scolded anymore for treating myself. I want them to know that I have slept well and I want to work on Wednesday with calmness and when I don't talk to anyone they should if feeling concerned ask about your well-being and not if I am okay?