Let me get straight to the point. She's fine. Normal. Confined. Passive? She's passive. That's a fair connotation. We've been talking lately and things are making sense, albeit slowly. We're adding two plus two. The answer's rarely four but at least there's a question. I was afraid I'd silence her and she'd choke on whatever's building inside her.
I took her to the dentist yesterday. 5 cavities and an RCT. Please don't say she's too young to have developed such rotten teeth, even the dentist made it clear. We're both tired of hearing the same things over and over again so don't make me shout at you. Yes. So I took her to the dentist and she was lying there while he drilled mercilessly as he should have. She kept trying to think of a good memory, anything pleasant, but blanked out. Nothing. Nill. Not a single memory of laughter or a trip maybe or you. After a while she gave up and focused on her breath instead. All she allowed to fall down her eyes was one tiny teardrop and I know for a fact that it was neither because of the lack of a concrete vision of happiness, nor because of the drilling. The dentist was stretching her mouth too wide and it had been a while since she opened it.
We laughed about it on our way back. It was such a cliché, not being able to accio something joyful, such a melodramatic highschool drama cliché that we both laughed dry. While having dinner I suddenly started laughing again, she spilled water all over my meal and we both fell on the floor laughing. You should have seen us, you'd have cried out of pity.
But hey, life's not all blue and gray. We paint sometimes. We paint you. With a wig and pig snout, with long ponytailed hair, with Adidas air force 1s. You make her happy, but only as a memory. She doesn't miss you, not one bit. It may hurt you today, maybe tomorrow, maybe for a month but you'll grow over it, I promise. And I'll write you letters explaining how she's slowly pushing you out of the picture.
It's just me and her, you know. Walls haven't shifted an inch, our room is still 5 steps away from the kitchen. We make our beds in morning; that's a new thing she picked up. I was livid the other day because everything was messy. There were literal food bits on the bed, her books were lying on my table, her hair strands were stuck in the heater. I had had enough. So I lectured her for 11 minutes straight. No guilt involved. She stared at me for a moment too long and I dreaded if she'd shout back, or worse, leave without a word, but I received a nod and mumbled agreement and I could have sworn there was a bit of life in those eyes.
That's how we coexist. I'm truthful and she's responsive. I smirk and she punches my shoulder. She screams. We both do. I have stopped trying to stay cautious, to think thrice before speaking, to respect her opinions everytime. We've both decided that she is as much of a human as I am and will be treated like one. No extra chocolate bits in her muesli. We correct each other when we're wrong, we don't nod purposelessly, nor do I pretend to understand her when I clearly don't. I think it's important to normalise her presence in my eyes for her to normalise herself.
I wish life wasn't as complicated. But then I wish for so many things- dreamless sleep, lower petrol prices, waffles, sleep, rain, a roadtrip, some dreams. How I wish she wasn't me.
This is a story-ish letter of sorts.
Okay. Let me explain it a little. 'I' am writing a letter to 'you' explaining how I'm learning to live with a part of myself that is dark and flawed. Fiction.
Your love was like that of a little boy running after a butterfly with a net but alas you never realised that I was not meant to be caught, I was not meant to be grabbed by the golden cage, I was not meant to be clutched by your hopeless emotions.
I was the poetry, not meant to be garnished under your lonesome candelabras. I had to affirm my existence inside the mayhem of fumy headstones. But inside the sockets of those chandeliers, I burnt like a cotton wick dipped in mystical oils.
I was the art, neither meant to be hung on your bedroom nor embellished with your mild gazes of fresh eyes. But inside the courtyards of Mohenjo-daro, I collapsed like the walls of big houses, like never before .
Now I'm alone, terribly alone like an effigy standing on the centre of a known city with many unknown gazes and sheer blackness. But I feel relaxed without your (lov/cag)e.
//There is something I will never tell you, this is the something, this is for you//
I write letters, I wrote over a hundred of letters already. I write letters whenever my heart breaks, the ink fall in the paper and make a sound louder than my breaking heart. I write until the ink gets totally wasted, and my heart leaves a sigh. Then I wrap it with a parchment and seal it with rusted flowers that I picked up from the graveyard everytime I walked past it. Then I put the stamps and label on top "To, Sky", and leave it in the bag until I visit the graveyard again. When I visit the graveyard again, I collect some more rusted flowers, pairs of old cards and a bit of sand and leave the letter beside "the newest shining gravestone". When I have done this, it feels like I have buried the old broken heart. I go back and I water some plants. Then I write a bit of old songs on my grandfather's journal and I sleep. The song gets rusted by the time I open it again. I tear the page and I walk to the graveyard again. I pick some flowers, and I sit down to write in the old cafe beside the graveyard which is named "We met here". // The owner of the cafe once said me that he met her wife the first time on the graveyard, he saw her planting a rose plant a bit away from a newest shining graveyard and he fell in love. After she died, he built her gravestone beside the rose plant and named it "the newest shining gravestone". It's been years and the stone never rusted, the plant still gives flowers and I collect the rusted flowers that falls down. // Then I go and meet the owner and I give him the page that reads the old song, he smiles and keeps it. I come back and I water some more plants to the garden. And then it rains, and you smile. I know you have read it. But this story, I know you won't ever read, I won't ever let you read, but this is for you.
From The keeper of the new shining gravestone.
P. S. The newest old song I wrote on the journal was hasi.
If flowers could speak, I think they'd tell us to stop plucking their wings in the name of love, to stop pressing them between verses and poetries only to be withered away, like another sad story; they'd tell us to start watering roots instead of just what appears to be, to start appreciating things before they wilt away; to breathe freely, take in the fragrance of life and let them too.
If the sky could speak, I think it'd tell us to stop looking wistfully at colours of dusk, as the sun dips in crimson- a token of passion and not sin; it'd tell us to keep running behind things that make us happy but at the same time stop wishing, on things that keep falling, on ones that are not meant to be ours; to let ourselves dream, to begin again with a new dawn, a beautiful one.