Wildflower

A blanket of darkness is  wrapped around me. It covers me like a shroud, but somehow it feels like large leaf covering it’s delicate flowers from the storm.

The tunnel is obscure in its architecture but the haunt of gloom hangs heavily. I don’t know how long or deep it is, but I can guess, the end is far. I can feel a lot of negative energy, like something is sick or dying. I can sense something that is restless and agitated. The air cringes away from my skin like the stench of rotting eggs. I have a voice in my heart, and it screams grow.

My feet, uncertain of the terrain, move cautiously at first. The ground is wet in places. I can see no definite path. The stones and pebbles are the teeth of an ill-fitting set of dentures. I fall down and granite scrapes away a part of my skin like an improperly erased drawing. I fall down several times but with each fall, I feel more confident about the place I am in. It is easier to get up each time. The voice gently sings grow. 

So I do.

I walk for miles, but I can’t seem to reach the end of this tunnel. My calves ache and chips of rocks pierce the soles of my feet. Sweat trickles down my forehead like water from edges of an overfilled jug. My iron heart grows rusty and the sword of will accepts defeat. Maybe this is my fate. I will spend my entire life in a rancid drain where algae will flourish over my entire existence like a bad rash of measles. I cry, I beg, I plead. But whilst I am hoping for god’s grace to crack open this devil’s hole, each patient moment makes my faith evaporate a little more. Pain is beating on me like a drum and I wish to give up on living. But then, the voice grows inside me, like a slow growl that converts into a loud roar. It rises from the pit of my stomach like warm bitter bile and leaves only one word on my tongue, grow. But I can’t. I am done. I try to swallow the word back but it rebels like an untamed horse. 

The voice chants grow,grow,grow.

So I do.

I get up and begin my ascent towards the light. Maybe it is an illusion of the tired mind, but I feel closer to the end. Or the beginning. Soon, I start hearing voices echoing through the tunnel. They tremble like teacups in an earthquake. Sounds, unclear in their tone, but firm in their approach. They tell me I shouldn’t go any further. The murmurs grow louder and say no,no,no. 

I probably shouldn’t go ahead. Everyone else is right. It is funny how the human mind is often ready to believe incongruous noises in the dark, just because they are more convenient to believe. The voices rattle constantly like ice cubes in a whisky glass and each one is a distinct criticism of my ascent. I am convinced that I should abandon this stupid idea. We are all meant to live in this hell hole, enveloped in darkness, marching away into oblivion without a cause proved just. I was a fool to believe that I could revolutionize this drudgery. Life is a vicious cycle I shouldn’t break. A path less travelled by?  It is the one that makes a difference because it is a mistake.

But this voice in my heart? It doesn’t have ears, it only knows how to speak and be heard. I lock it within the chamber of my heart, but the melodious lullaby knocks at my ribs singing grow,grow,grow. The soft music reverberates in my hollow bones until it is a tone I cannot disregard. All the cells in my body begin to resonate, chanting grow, grow, grow. I feel the sound leave my skin and hit the ceiling. I wonder if the sound alone will split the sky open.The entire tunnel resounds the blood in my heart, as if in a trance, grow. 

So I do.

I fiercely scrambled through the darkness, towards the light. I soar, sprouting through the tunnel like a seed, watered by the will of a voice that says, grow.

I reached the radiance soon, bursting out through the tiny crack like a wildflower blooming in fresh, violent sunlight. I rise like the hurricane and dance amidst the clouds at edge of the earth and the sky. I am saturated with colour and seared by the light.This earth, my earth, my playground. 

Grow.

Where they say you cannot, when there is no fodder for your soul. The only thing that locks you in place is the only thing that can set you free.

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In fond memory of the sea. 

You stand by the sea, listening to the roar of waves hitting the shore at sunset. You watch the water from a distance, as it curves itself in despair when the sun threatens to exit the horizon. The sea, my love, is a seductive mistress in broad daylight. It draws you.The tides bind you in invisible ropes and pull you ferociously.  So, as you watch others, who lose themselves to the mighty sea, jumping, falling, drowning even, you wonder how salty the turquoise sea tastes. You will hear it’s roar in your dreams when you wish to dream of moutains. You will smell the ocean in your own words until one day, you decide to take one step ahead. Maybe one foot into the water?

The sea embraces you like a long lost lover, it’s waves hit you when you are busy looking at the sky, and you will be surprised, fascinated even,by the warmth of the ocean. A warmth that reminds you of a mother or rather, a lover. You can feel it within yourself, emerging like waves in your heart when blood hits it’s walls. You wonder if the sea in front of your eyes is the sea within you. You feel one, you wish to be one. So as your mind decides to take one cautious step into the sand, your heart leaps into the water until you are waist deep in thought. The sea is like that. It is the kind of love that leans in for a kiss but takes a bite instead. Your legs are immersed in water and you wonder if this is what you were missing. The love that appears to touch you in a whispered words but hits you like a tornado. And before you know, it overwhelms you, overpowers you in a way that you never feel you needed another. Love is very much like the sea. It drowns you and fills every space you have. You get used to the moving currents, hiding gasps beneath the waves or screaming of a story in ripples.

But then one day the waves begin to receed. You panic because you don’t understand a feeling unless the water warms your belly button or salt burns your eyes. You try to catch hold of the water, helplessly clutch at the stream in the hope that your fingers will suffice the limits the ocean doesn’t recognize. The waves receed and the sand beneath your feet slips away into the ocean where it truly belongs, while you are there, sinking, sinking, sinking. You almost want the waves to carry you along with themselves, away from the facades of a gin soaked world of joyless daylights. But it doesn’t, it doesn’t. Because mind you, however lovingly the wave embraced your body and soul, it still belongs to the sea. You wish you did too.

Your feet are burrowed in sand and a pit is forming in your belly, a void, an absence that you probably will never be able to fill again. You realize your folly, maybe the sea was nothing more than a charm that caught your eye. It is a pity of course, the kind of love that promises to cuddle but ends up choking instead. And you are choking, the sea within you rises in your throat in tides you can’t settle. You run away from the shore, climb a mountain, you build walls and castles so that no wave ever can touch you again. You sit there huddled, in a corner because the sea isn’t the saviour, it is the slayer. It threatens to drown you in storms while daring you to breathe. It is the savage and the elegant. It is the festival and the battle.

But then, love, one day, a wave will rise stronger than the ones you have seen, stronger than any you have seen. It will break through every wall you’ve built. The moutain peak will bow down to immerse you into the vast sea. Faith will overpower reason. It will overwhelm you, overpower again, and you will be one.  I cannot tell you if this wave will remain or whether it will float away like the rest of ocean in ripples and pieces that were never meant to stay. But when it comes, whenever it does, it will be the most beautiful thing you will have seen in your life. The wave will be worth an entire lifetime even if it washes away your existence in it’s realms. The wave is a world within itself, a world you are meant to live in or lose yourself to. Maybe it will come today, or tomorrow, maybe a year later or ten, but when it does, when it does my love, it will change your life.

The Life Of Soul

The intricacies of life are curious and ashamed. Life is a habit we are born with. God has a great sense of humour. He lets us grow into the life we have been gifted, merging into the very essence of everything that exists, so much so that  we begin to ignore the worth of it. Occasionally, he yanks off the blanket we have woven over ourselves and exposes us to the cold that chills us to the bones and waits for us to show the courage to pull it back over.
However, in that infinite moment when blanket is off your naked soul, you realize how dearly you want it back. It is that hope which ignites your will and renders life to your soul.
It might be the infinitesimal skip in your heartbeat when you miss a stair or that strength with which you push the brakes when a speeding car crosses your way.

You might be thinking about how the colour of the traffic policeman’s eyes matches that of your ex-boyfriend or wonder about the terminal illness your neighbour has been diagnosed with. You may be calculating the cost repairing your broken music player or the shirt you would wear for the presentation the next day. But the moment you press the brake hard, your senses jolt back to the conscious and you forget everything ,to realize how much you want to live. And that is the beauty of it. Isn’t it?

It is that birth of hope when the oncologist tells you that it isn’t cancer.  You feel the life in you heart. No matter how much you complain about laundry you have to do when you get back home, or however miserable you feel for not having enough money to buy that pair of earrings you saw at the jewellery store, you are glad. It is a feeling of pure divinity and serenity. You are joyous for the sole fact that there is still blood in your heart and wind your lungs and that is what matters for most.
You might want to yell or cry after failing an exam or curse yourself for losing a job, but I promise, if I threw you into an infinite sea, you would still hold your breath.

In a quick moment, let us celebrate the joy of our lives. Let go of trivialities and don’t let the worries of the world pull you down  because the world is a wonderful place. Celebrate your existence because it matters. You only have one shot at this beautiful miracle. Make it count.

9 reason why I quit Snapchat

I uninstalled Snapchat on the first of January, 2018 and it wasn’t really a random decision. I put much thought into it ( probably more than it required) because I had been using Snapchat for about 5 years and it had almost become a part of my daily routine. But using it had started becoming more of a habit interest. So here are my nine reasons I found on the internet/felt of my own accord as for why I deleted snapchat and why you should too.

1. Privacy -Snapchat is one of the most used social media apps with about 500 million users because it revolves around the basic idea that what you send cannot be seen by any other person except for the receiver, for a limited amount of time that you can control. This sole information gives the user a sense of false entitlement and power over their data that is not afforded by other apps. But wait, is it as private as it claims to be? For starters, irrespective of claims, anything shared online is never private. Whether it’s an incognito browser or a VPN or a Snapchat. There is a high chance that what you’re putting up on snapchat as story or as a personal snap, might end up on your Google search. And mind you, the statistics are higher than you’d expect. Plus, a story remains for 24 hours, and any person you add can watch it innumerable times. Plus, people feel privileged enough to take screenshots.

2. Purpose– The original purpose of Snapchat was safe sexting, although with a mammoth rise in popularity, it’s purpose has broadened or I might add distorted. Snapchat was meant to be used for sending boobies and nudes to your average boyfriend/girlfriend. Frankly speaking, I used snapchat for everything else except for that. I sent stupid dog faces, ugly just-woke-up snaps and what not. And by my knowledge, a lot of people use it for solely purposes other than sexting. Which kind of negates it’s purpose, renders it useless and unnecessary.

3. Snapstreaks– Snapchat has a feature called Snapstreaks where people whom you snap everyday show up first in your list with a fire symbol next to them. The number against the fire symbol is the number of days you’ve been sending each other snaps. Once you miss sending snaps within 24 hours, the fire symbol disappears. It doesn’t sound like it’s a big deal and might even be a cool feature to mark your favourites. Sounds legit? But I remember, my friend and I were on snapstreaks and remained so for a few days. After that the friend insisted that we maintain our snapstreak nonetheless. So we sent each other stupid snaps, blank snaps just for Snapstreaks and nothing else. Even if we didn’t have anything legit to send. Which was not only meaningless​, but also annoying and plain stupid.

4. Awkward– Snapchat allows you to see who has watched/ replayed/ screenshot/ replied to your snap. Having sent a snap to someone, it is seemingly normal to expect a reply/ snap reaction to it and it’s also basic social media courtesy to do so. But a lot of people don’t abide by it which seems fair enough on their part if the sent snap is not the kind of picture that ellicits a response. But the sender still expects it. Because let’s put it straight, that’s why he sent it in the first place. Which puts both the sender and receiver in a fix. There’s awkwardness and more awkwardness. This happened a lot with me, wherein I didn’t know how to react to someone who’d sent me a snap of holding hands with their boyfriend/drinking tea. And then sometimes I would tear my hair out over someone not replying to mine. I figured it was too much of a headache.

5. Stories– Stories are a bunch of snaps or a single snap that stay for 24 hours and can be viewed by everyone you’ve added ( you can block a few, but that’s not the point) Most people choose the best parts of their day and put them up as stories. That seems like  a cool thing to do, at a party or at an outing with friends or at wedding. But when a another person is watching those snaps, idly sitting alone in a room on a boring Sunday, it might make him feel worse. They go on to believe that the lives lived by their counterparts are far more interesting and glorious than theirs. What they don’t realise is that nobody is going to put up stories of themselves when it’s not a good time. Nobody puts up stories that scream loneliness or boredom or a snowballing workload. Thus snapstories, however fun to watch, are crazily false projections of how people live their lives. And it often leads to dissatisfaction and discontentment. Furthermore, a story lets you see who all have viewed your story. This creates a restlessness because you’re going to constantly check if your crush has viewed it, you’ll wonder what they think of what you’ve posted. You will check if your ex has viewed it. Hence you end up almost worrying about it and you’re ruining the moment you’re in by doing that. So, sorry but however attractive or may seem to put up a story, not putting it up is the right thing to do.

6. Filters– Snapchat came up with the face filters and a lot of them for free. They’re easy to use and work on face recognition. I used to check snapchat everyday and look for any new filters that they had introduced. I’d try it out and send it to someone. Sounds fun? Eh no. Firstly, most filters make you look like a fool, or an animal, which is not flattering to say the least. Why would you want to send someone pictures of yourself looking like a dog with it’s tongue out? Are you a dog? (Ofcourse no) then don’t do it.used to look into the front camera and worry about my acne and long nose and compare it to other features someone else had and to be honest it gave me a very low self esteem. I always checked the angles that made me look better. Filters alter the way you look, your skin tone, your eye colour and your features and nothing should make you feel that you look better that way. 

7. Not living in the moment– It’s become a trend to put ups stories/ snaps to show people what you’re doing. And constantly seek approval and attention for it. I admit it that I often felt myself doing it, and realised that I’d stopped enjoying the moment I was in and instead lost my peace of mind over taking a good picture or a funny snap. I used to put a lot of brain into content of the snap to make it look different and interesting which zapped the essence of everything I did. It isn’t natural. I wanted to dramatise things and project them as something they’re not. It made me feel fake and guilty of sorts. Plus, that makes everything you do staged and you don’t live in the moment anymore.
8. Time– I used to waste a lot of time of Snapchat over filters/stories/trophies/streaks and what not. And this year, since I have a lot of things coming up, I thought I’d actively cut down crap. Although, even if you had a lot of time on your hand, Snapchat is still a waste of time. You’d rather invest it somewhere worthwhile.

9. Send me a snap– A lot of my friends have been busy with their career and study plans. I’ve had very few people on snapchat that I actually interact with on a regular basis via snap. So Snapchat wasn’t really what I needed when I could easily contact via other social media plus I am not looking for any kind of romantic interest to send nudes anyway.

 So that was it for me, if you’re still on Snapchat, find out what you’re doing and tell me if you think you’re going to get rid of it.

A single bed

In my dreams, I am walking in a forest. There is nothing I can hear except for the creaking of omnious twigs beneath my feet. I watch the sun set, while sitting at the edge of a lake, my feet dipped in water and a dandelion in my hand. I blow the dandelion and the wind carries away the whisps like a prayer of longing, while my feet grow colder from all the warmth the water doesn’t have. 

I wake up, in my 24 by 18 feet room, my ragged breath sounds like someone walked over a broken China vase. It is 3 am and my stomach is in knots of hunger and ache. Soiled clothes are piled over a chair at the end of my bed and all the curtains are drawn.

In my dreams, I spend $834 on a white gown with a long trail and when I show it to him, he says he knows another woman who would look prettier in the dress than I will. At the altar, he says I do anyway but I am bleeding from the thorned roses I hold and when they say ‘Kiss the bride‘, his lips smell of regret.

When I wake up, I am sleeping next to another man and the man from my dreams is not a saved contact on my phone anymore.
I dream of a foreign country, with chateaux and cathedrals towering high enough to stop the sun from reaching my face. In narrow lanes, I walk in shadows of antique shops where someone sells the first James Taylor vinyl I ever bought. I see people sitting in their homes, sipping the kind of wine they don’t sell in our country. There are apple pies and butter cookies on the table, it is Thanksgiving probably. My breath fogs up the glass and I draw a smiley face. 

Somewhere in reality I am dizzy from all the wine that rises from my belly into my throat like a fireball and leaves a bitter tongue. In the middle of the night through half shut eyes, I check the ticket prices of flights to the country I dreamt of, but money is scarce and so is belief. I sigh and my breath looks like a fogged up mirror with the words I am sorry.

I dream of sitting in a bus that is almost empty and someone leaves a basket of wilted roses on the seat next to mine. The roses start blooming on my touch and for once I feel beautiful. Suddenly a snake springs from underneath the crimson petals and bites my lip. 

I wake up with the taste of fear in my mouth that validate the trust issues seeping through my bones.

In my dream, I am in dim-lit diner and it’s 2 am. My friends are drinking and laughing at a lousy joke. My eyes are empty and my glass is full. A stranger walks past my table and I wonder if I should tell my friends that I slept with him once. Meanwhile, he turns around and winks.

I wake up drenched in the want of a familiar hand touching me in ways that are too shameful to write. 

In my dreams, I am in a room full of strangers and everyone is shouting, voices pierce the air in succession like a pack of dominoes, and somehow I am that flick of a finger. The frantic shrieks are voicing everything that I never had the courage to, and it gives me a strange satisfaction to hear them scream, like a melody that had been lost for long. I slowly walk out of the room and shut the door. The voices mute and I’m suddenly very afraid.

In reality, I open my mouth to speak but words never come out. They shrivel up like pieces of stray paper by the fireplace and turn to ashes on my tongue. The voices knock on doors of my heart, but this time I can’t find the knob to let them out.

In dreams, I dance amidst a festival of colours, the sky looks like someone smeared mango pulp on it. My eyes are drops of honey in an ocean of milk, they look like someone switched on a light in a dark room. My skin sparkles like crystals in the shine of the sun. Every inch of it gleaming with an exhilaration I have never known in reality. 

When I wake up, I am sleeping in a single bed and my skin is falling off  it like molten lava that will charr any and every thing in it’s way. My bed is too small for the thoughts in my head as they roll over the entire bed and drips over the edges like water from an overfilled jug. They spread on the floor like wildfire. My bed is in the midst of conifers and the fire turns every last leaf to ash. Dust adorns my flesh and I breathe out black smoke. My bones are hot like someone buried blackholes inside. The bed seems to shrink smaller and smaller, and from somewhere within, I hear a whisper that asks is there enough room for you?

Of cold winter nights

On cold and lonely winter nights like these, when it’s 3 am and I am wide awake, I think about you. I think about you quite a lot, more than I should. Sometimes when I try to write down how I feel about you for the millionth time, even my fingers ache with hurt. They remind me, that no matter how myriad my vocabulary is, no matter how many varied ways I present this in, our story will always remain the same. And no-one likes to read the same story again and again. I want to tell them that I am not repeating my idea of you because every time I think of you, it is in a beautiful new light and form. I want to tell them that I could write every single day for the rest of my life and never run out of words to describe what you meant to me. I want to say all these things to my hurting fingers but I don’t. Because I know they’re right. Because I don’t belong in your life anymore and you don’t belong in mine. I practically don’t have much to say to you and whatever I wish I had said or you had said or we had done doesn’t matter anymore. 

I watch your life in pictures on Instagram and I don’t even know what they’re about. Sometimes I look at them and wonder if five years from now you’ll knock at my door and wrap me in your arms. And on winter nights like these, we’ll snuggle closer and watch YouTube videos about pranks. I imagine myself asking you where that picture on your Instagram from five years ago was clicked. But there is no room for such insanity any more. You are never coming back. I know it. Moreover, to come back to a place, you must belong there, and you never belonged to me, you never belonged to anyone. 

But I am those periwinkle poppies that you plucked on your way out of this paradise  I planted to make you stay. I bloomed for you, I wilted for you. I loved you so much. I wonder if you will ever know. If there’s Cupid’s scale to show you how much that much love looks like. I am the kind of lover that loves like gray clouds floating through the sky, so full of  a something that they cannot pour it out without reminding anyone of fear. That is the problem with people like me, who are willing to drown in love. And that is the problem with people like you who like to play the game. You believe everyone else is playing too.

 It is such a shame that I wrote another page about you. I sometimes feel I am so done with you, but then somewhere something links me to a faint memory of you and I can’t breathe anymore. I want to pretend, like you, that it doesn’t matter to me, that nothing ever did, but I can’t. I can’t. I want to talk to you again, like a normal human being, like an average adult without trying to convince myself that I’m not in love with you anymore. And I’m not, I know it. It’s just that sometimes I look at you and I wish I was. I wish I was in love with you and you were in love with me and this was the perfect story I’d tell my grandkids. But I’m not and we’re not and this ain’t a story. 

Sometimes I wonder what I will tell the man who I marry about everything I have written about you. I wonder if by that time any of this will make sense, to me or to him. Maybe I’ll start off by saying that a lot of the stuff I’ve written is a lot of random crap about a random boy who thought he was cool. Maybe I’ll laugh it off before I begin with. Maybe I’ll say that this doesn’t matter now and maybe it won’t then. Maybe I’ll delete this, or maybe I’ll read this out to him and tell him that the only reason why I never threw it into the bin was because at one point of time it meant something to me. And that will be the truth. In time, you’re just going to be a-somebody-I-used-to know-once and although at one point of time I was afraid of that thought, I just can’t wait for that to come true. I am waiting for the time when I will shrug off this kind of love that I have for you, as overrated and unnecessary. When I’ll fall in love with someone else and say ‘Wow, that was easier than I thought.’ 

Tonight, the periwinkle poppies are growing thorns that cut through my fingers and the clouds have floated away in pursuit of a greener pastures. But one day they clouds will rain in my heart and they will bloom again. Someday I’ll get over you, in the absolute sense of that phrase and I’ll push you out of my heart to make room for someone else. Someday it will be okay to see a picture of you and watch you living your life without stinging me with your absence in mine.

But that someday is clearly not today. It’s a cold lonely winter night, 3 am and tonight, I bloody miss you.

Peace

It’s my birthday tommorrow and I will be 21 years old. I wonder often, how it’s even possible to live for so long without love. All my friends keep asking me what I want for my birthday. My sister asks me why I haven’t added items to my Amazon wishlist. I wish I was the kind of person who craved for materialistic possessions.

 I wish I was a swanky tight jeans, wine drinking, rocker chic who craved for faux leather biker jackets and a new bottle of champagne on birthdays. I wish I was a make up blogger on YouTube who saved up just enough money to buy the new Kylie Jenner lip kit and a tripod on my birthday. I wish I was a teenager who gifts herself a haircut as a birthday present and spends the rest of the year contemplating if it makes her look attractive or funny. I wish I was an old librarian in a dingy bookshop at the corner of the street that no-one visits, I would just buy myself a pair of new spectacles and spend my evening cleaning the dust off old books. I wish I was an overworked underpaid employee at a call centre who knew that he could never afford anything more than a day off and thus never expected anything else. I wish I was a one year old baby who could wish for more teeth or the Alzheimer’s patient who didn’t remember what she wanted to gift herself, or rather, who didn’t even remember her birthday.  

I cut my cake and smile for the picture you’re clicking but on the inside, everything is trembling like teacups in an earthquake. We go to hilltops where you scream out a Happy Birthday and wait for me to hear the mountains echo it. I smile and I let you click pictures of me while the truth is I’m thinking about jumping off the cliff when you’re not looking. You put up pictures of us on social media and tell me how much you love me. I look at the screen and proceed to write a lovely note of gratitude while wondering why I can never bring myself to love me. We go shopping and I buy new clothes off expensive brands. You tell me that I look pretty but when I look into the mirror I’m only thinking of the tan lines beneath the fabric. You gift me the one set of headphones I’ve always wanted but I never put them on. I smile and say thank you and proceed to the feeling of how I don’t deserve any of this. I spend the entire day trying to justify a reason for my existence and believe me, I find it difficult. 
I want things that are either abstract or fictious​ or impossible or abnormal to want for. Can you want people to be your birthday presents?

So when you ask me what I want for my birthday and I say love, don’t laugh it off and tell me you love me. Because we only crave for things we can never have. Don’t laugh it off when I say I want peace because my insides are on fire as I speak and I am dead serious. Don’t laugh it off when I say I want happiness and then proceed to buy me a pretty dress that falls upon the the hollow emptiness my body has become, like a shroud. I wish you could really give me what I wanted, because I don’t want to be rude but whatever you buy me will never make me happy.  Don’t ask me what I want for my birthday because only I can gift it to myself. I want peace and joy and love. I wish I could buy that off Amazon but I can’t. Happiness won’t fit into a jar of cookies or in a chicken burger. Peace doesn’t hang in the closet at H&M or bounce up and down at a rave club party. Love doesn’t knock at the door and lie outside like a letter hidden in the morning newspaper. I am in constant pursuit of something I will never have. We all are, aren’t we?

But I am trying, trying to find happiness in chocolate cake and French fries. I am looking for joy in the pockets of my new jeans and in the smiles of people I love. I watch from my window as a man paints his doors pink and instead of wondering like always, what man is he who lives behind pink doors, I am trying to get up and knock. I know I will find it, happiness, hiding beneath the carpet rug or between the pages of a book I haven’t read in a long while. It is there, waiting with hope that I will show the infinitesimal courage of turning the leaves. Today, that courage looks like a house of cards in a hurricane but someday, it will be blazing like the sun in summer. Then I will turn that leaf and joy will come home like it always belonged here. And that day, no matter what calender day it is, I will be reborn.

Sorrow

Once upon a time, my heart was palace full of the people I loved dearer than my self. My heart was adorned with tinkling bells and fairy lights that chimed until the day nothing was left of them. There were stars on the ceiling and oceans on the floor. All I longed for was peace and harmony. They say love is never enough to make people stay but I was a fool, I loved them until my visitors clawed at the wallpaper and tore down the curtains of my heart, never heeding my words. They passed around knives and swords at the dining table on Christmas instead of rum and raisins and never once stopped to look back at the ruin they were leaving me in. One day, they knocked off the candelabra and set my heart on raging fire. My palace was destroyed, charred with the smoke of hurt and anger. Chaos had descended and it arose from the ashes of my flesh.

Eons later, a man knocked on the doors of my heart. I peek through the curtains and see his ocean eyes expectant of a welcome. I am bitter and distrustful now but there is something insane about desire that never asks for consent. As he waits at the door, the knocking grows louder and mind you, it skips a beat. His presence fills me with a joy that smells like dandelions and daffodils in spring. I have never known a joy so profound so I run down the stairs calling his name but when I open the door, my man has long gone, and he has left Sorrow in a small cradle at my front porch. I am afraid because I remember of a time when the shriek of betrayal echoesd through my corridors. But Sorrow is a baby, and it needs my arms. 

He moves in as a tiny toddler wailing for his dead mother. I let him stay out of pity,  yet my heart is a cathedral trembling with the hollow rustle of an agonising memory deeper than the roots of the pine tree in my backyard. I’m nervous, because my heart has forgotten how to make bed for someone else and draw the curtains every morning. 

I cradle the baby and feed it from my bosom like it were my first born. As he grows, Sorrow is mischievous, no, cunning, in his play and I am his toy. He pulls my hand too hard when we run around my mind and hides within the crevices of my broken heart when we play hide and seek. He never sleeps when I tuck him into bed and instead dances in my nightmares. He scrapes my bare skin with fingernails full of forgotten thoughts and never lets them heal. Pity, how do you heal wound that gape open with mere thoughts? 

Sorrow has an insatiable hunger that I can never keep up with. He eats away through the walls of my heart and leaves bleeding vessels everywhere. But I console myself, he is my son and he has grown to be a part of me. 

Sorrow is a caged bird that refuses to fly when I open the cage. He gnaws on my bones and makes me weak and hollow. The blood of my heart is beginning to  pour from the ceiling. It spurts through the creaks in the floor and I can sense a flood growing inside of me. I try to hide Sorrow lest he drowns in this incardine sea. But he doesn’t listen. He dives into the blood and begins to drown, wildly flailing his arms for breath. He asks me for help but watching him drown gives me a sense of relief that I am ashamed of. I scream in agony for what mother is she, who lets the blood of her heart overwhelm her child’s breath. But I realise Sorrow isn’t a child anymore, he is a monster who knows no mother. When I keep pushing sorrow to drown in my blood for too long, he learns how to swim. 

He rises from the ruins of the chambers and catches me in his grasp. I am terrified because sorrow wants to choke me on those very things that gave him birth. The doors shake violently because they cannot seem to hold the flood in anymore. I fight Sorrow, I push away it’s icy fingers from my throat because living with him has taught me why I want to live. My entire palace is a house of cards in a hailstorm and I am forgetting how to breathe. Sorrow has almost won and I begin to give up.

 Suddenly, the trembling calms down, the thick crimson seeps away leaving nothing but stains of sin and everything turns gray. In the silence of the darkness, I see something yellow and beautiful standing at the door, expecting to come in. It looks like sunlight, it looks like love. Sorrow still holds me hostage but he is curious about the visitor. As we move towards the door, the smell of wild dandelions of spring fill my nostrils, and at once I know who it is outside. Sorrow will open the door soon, he has never known the visitor like I have and that is what will be the end of him.

 The visitor is the roar of the ocean and chirping of the birds. He is shy giggles and uncontrolled laughter, he is silent whispers and Christmas carols. He is warmth of summers and the wind in my hair. The visitor knocks at the door of my heart whose thundering echoes like the melody from an orchestra, I hear it, oh don’t you?

Daffodils

The warm breeze touches my face like the breath of my first lover and, I think about the daffodils that used to bloom in my neighbour’s garden. In the dark days, when fate and circumstance bowed down my shoulders, I watched those buds until they flowered. The yellow petals lay in my path when I was running away from myself.

Long I stood, watching the flowers refuse to wilt in the cruel violent sunshine and loving it instead. I was trying to take a picture of the sun to bring me light, never realising that it burned and blinded me. But I looked at them and smiled.
I promised to smile with their bloom. Two years, I spent, everyday looking at those flowers coloured with the yellow of hope. I was convinced that my future was a seed someone had sowed into the ground and forgotten to water. But the petals fluttered with the wind and sung of my future as a vine with young tendry leaves, hiding amidst giant Bougainville​ shrubs, climbing it’s way up to reach the sunlight. Their golden hue whispered of hope that my future might be on long tiring trek, but it was going to be home soon. And then, the sky of my heart would turn golden with the blooming of it’s cautious petals. 
Even after circumstances decided to be kinder to me, and happiness twirled around in my skirt, I still looked at those flowers everyday. Now, in the memory of having survived something that I never thought I would. It’s petals were the pages of a book I had never thought I’d finish reading. Each one, a sea that I almost drowned into, until the last leaf of hope held onto me. And I held onto it.
Those flowers taught me that time comes and goes, like summer rain in London, as and when it wishes to. Time is a rich spoilt brat sometimes, that does as it pleases. At other times, it is a strict professor in an examination hall who never lets anyone cheat him. Sometimes time is the fall of a chair you are sitting on, except it never really falls, stuck in that feeling of falling endlessly.
 But someday, if you’re stubborn enough, time gives you what you want. It lets you have your way if you refuse to bend for long enough. And then Time becomes the laughter of a child on a swing, that you can never get enough of. It becomes the wind in your hair when a gush of wind  touches your face. It becomes the slow moving clouds in a blue sky that dance in your into your ears as if everything you have ever wanted is right here, right now. But until then you have to just hold on. The time ahead is lovely and it is ready for you.

Last year, the owner of the place hacked down the daffodils, exterminated them from the very roots. And I watched them lose themselves, to ignorant human nature and for a moment I was afraid. Afraid because those flowers had something in them that I knew I would never find anywhere else. Something called Hope. But I smiled and reminded myself that those very flowers are now blooming in my chest. They smile through my lips and flourish through my eyes. I still look at that side of the garden, thinking of the flowers that gave me a reason to live. Life is beautiful, I am here and my time is now.

I can’t breathe anymore

C: http://www.wealthyempoweredwoman.com

My chest feels like an enormous glass ceiling at which life has hurled a stone, the size of your lifeless body. It shattered with the sound of blood falling to the floor like raindrops from a thunderstruck sky. You can’t see the irreconcilable figments of that ceiling grazing my ribs, against my flesh but they dig into my bones when I breathe. The shards of glass waiver into kaleidoscopic agony with movements of my chest and I can’t breathe anymore.

My arms are the sad embrace of a mother who never saw her child blink an eye outside her womb, always regretting how her hands could never save it. My legs are chunks of aching flesh, pulsating with the resentment of running away from the horizon where a sun set, never stopping to realise what else they are made for. My bones are swollen with the fear for everyone I have ever loved will push me into an abyss when they cease to exist. I scream, until my voice cords shred apart and all that is left of me is the memory of you and I can’t breathe anymore.

I am in a ring and when they say go, my Life plunges towards me and sits atop my chest. It thumps my ribs like we pump fists to a rock song. How can I help you heal? I ask myself, but there is no answer, only the hollow whistling of cold winds blowing through a willow tree in autumn. My body is the whisps of a dandelion, which blow away with the storm like they were destined to do so. Someone brings up your name and my entire glass ceiling melts like molten gold over my head, leaving behind a pool of gray muddy gloom which is tinged with blood red anger and I can’t breathe anymore.

Everyday is the same, every night is the same. My time moves, in cycles of meaningless wreckage and emotional anihilation, that scratches against my skin but refuses to wash away the sorrow, whose seeds you have sown into my skin. Life is wearing away my existence. I don’t want to feel this way but I don’t know how I want to feel anymore. It is night again, pull the blinds and let me crawl back into the silhouette of your existence because outside, the sky is twinkling with stars and I cannot breathe anymore when I look up to see you’re one of them.

What is hurt anyway, I ask myself, and try to smile when my friend cracks a joke. But this universe is guilty of the cruel mockery of my love and I can feel my faith trembling like teacups in an earthquake. Joy seems to be a stranger I’ve never met before and grief sleeps with me every night in my bed. I dream of you holding my hand as I hang from a cliff. But when I wake up, somewhere in my mind, I am standing at the edge of a canyon of emptiness and I hum the first song you ever loved until I can’t breathe anymore.

Humans

I remember, three years ago, we were sitting before the ocean. Your hands full of the fine white sand, that sparkle like tiny constellations in your palms and mine full of you. The roar of the ocean is the cinema and we, mere spectators. Your hands are cold, as you keep scraping the sand, with bare fingers while the ocean fills every pit that you dig with yawning tides. You are impatient, the ocean annoys you because you can never dig a pit that the ocean cannot fill. Your fists cannot catch hold of the blue sky either. I laugh, and I tell you how you, me and all of us are tiny specs of a grander scheme that we weren’t blessed with the ability to comprehend. We aren’t meant taste clouds or halt hurricanes. You tell me, that I am wrong. You tell me that on the inside, each one of us hold oceans deeper than those that have existed on this earth and skies more vast than all of universe put together. You tell me that if I pluck up enough courage to be who I truly am, I can be everything. Everything that the universe had never seen. I laughed again. I still laugh when I think of it.

That night, the full moon shone on your face and I wondered, only for a moment, if you were truly the ocean itself. The ocean that commands devotion, not love. I realised later that you were the kind of devotion that changes with the bed they sleep in. That night, you, the boy with the ocean eyed gaze looked at me and promised me that we’d come back here after we had lived for eighty years and watch the moon rise from the ashes of an ocean burning with love.

Promises. They’re such bastards of words. Each one is a time bomb. I carved out words of your promises on my heart, when those words were meant to fly away with the breeze and never once, look back. Maybe that is the kind of love we were destined for, the kind that fools you into believing that the bomb in your chest will not blow you into smithereens. It then starts ticking, ticking away with each heartbeat, cautiously laying itself in every word uttered, every action undertaken. It clicks under my skin, in my blood and it scares me of it’s audacity sometimes. But we’re humans, we speak and we believe we can honour our speech. Promises make you want to keep the honour of those words, until one day you can’t. It takes time for some people, for you, it took less than a blink. But you’re afraid and you wish you had never placed the promise within my cold ribs like it were a thornless rose. But the damage is done, whatever you gave me, has been lost into the ocean you claimed I was. I couldn’t find it if I wanted to. The heart is vicious, for it grows veins and vessels over your bomb like it is a part of it’s own. I am afraid too, I know I will die if this explodes, but everything in my body holds it back,every last inch of hope, every last drop of blood. Hope that you will keep your words and it drains me, to the extent that I’d rather watch the bomb go off, right there in my chest than try to pull it out.

I felt mine explode that night you walked away. It crushed my ribs until I couldn’t fall to the ground or stand straight. It still does, when I watch the full moon rise. It still does, when I think of the ocean in your eyes. It still does when I think of the memory of memories we will never make eighty years from now.

You were my bonfire on a cold winter evening. I could live without you, chattering my teeth and shivering right down to my bare bones to keep myself warm. But sometimes, sometimes the thought of watching your smile in the warm orange glow of fire ignites my soul to want to live. Live like there’s not tomorrow, like there has been no yesterday, only today, this moment and you and me. The thought of tenderness echoes in the lonely winter night. I hold metaphors in the parting of my lips that gasp when the wind carries those lonely echoes and whisper ‘I wish you were here’.

I remember when you told me that on the inside, each one of us hold oceans deeper than those that have existed on this earth and skies more vast than all of universe put together. My love, I want to tell you that we’re not the calm seas and the clear skies, we’re not raging fire or savage storms. We’re the shipwrecks. We’re the forest on fire. We’re the drowning breaths and choking lungs. We’re ordinary. We’re humans. And I wish you could know that we can only long for what we wish until the promises of our existence tick us away. Like you long for the ocean and I long for you.

Emotional?

I always feel like everyone in this world is taking me for granted all the time. It is probably a problem every emotional person faces. I have a big heart, I have an ocean of love inside of me that I am waiting to give to everyone who comes across my way. In this cruel world of ours, everyone has been betrayed by everyone else so many times that no-one is willing to trust anyone else. People who have been kind to others have faced unkindness at the hands of those very people. Trust has been broken repeatedly, people have been hurt over and over again. I am one of those people, too emotional, too caring, too sweet for everyone in this world. People call me an emotional fool. They tell me I should be emotionally intelligent, have a tab of my feelings.

 But what no one understands is the fact that the ability to feel is a blessing. I can feel things at a range where they deep down to my very bones and tingle inside. I don’t know why people are so afraid. Afraid of letting out how they feel. Maybe this unkind world has made them that way. Everyone is living under veils and veils of emotions, saying something while feeling another. Everyone has masks that let them be different people at different times. Everyone is afraid because the world has shut them down for far too long. Everytime someone comes forward and admits love, or fondness or sadness or excitement or joy, there is another person to put them down. Love makes people feel vulnerable, being emotional is the trait of a weak man, a man who flows away with this river of the heart in no time. 

People tell you to move the fuck on when you’re sad because your grief makes them uncomfortable. Your grief makes them realise that they game of pretense they are playing, with each other and with themselves is fooling no one after all. Because they aren’t ready to face what really matters. When you’re excited, people excuse your excitement for immaturity. They call you kiddish, they call you stupid. When you’re passionate about something they tell you that you shouldn’t get attached to things so deeply. Detachment is the value of today’s generation. I don’t believe in it though.  Emotion is a power that helps you keep yourself in perspective. What man is he who doesn’t feel? Why pretend to be stone hearted when you’re insides melt like a burning candle. Yes, I do cry in movies that have sad endings, I do laugh like a maniac when I watch Mr. Bean for the zillionth time. Yes, there are days when I will refuse to smile to comfort your ignorance of my ordeal. I will be there to genuinely be happy for you when you land your first job. I’m going to randomly wake up to call you and tell you that you inspire me. That I am grateful for your existence without expecting you to reciprocate it. And then you will think of me as an easy game, a lonely lad  a with no one to care for. You will think I’m flirty and clingy. You will think I’m weird and  a kind of frank you cannot handle. You will think I’m trying to please you and want favours from you , but the truth is , I am in no obligation  to offer you an explanation for my existence. I don’t care what you think about me, I only care about what I think, what I believe. And I am going to act on my rules without waiting for a moment to ask for your opinion about it. I am going to get super angry when you piss me off and I will not pretend like it’s okay. If you want me to be the kind of person who will be a certain way to please your complacency, please excuse me. I am who I am. Raw, bold, straight forward. I am the new generation and yes I do believe in kindness. Ignorance is not cool, Carelessness is not cool. You want to know what’s cool? What’s in? Compassion. Empathy. 

Being positive, understanding and caring is cool. Letting your heart flow like the ocean instead of building dams is cool. Being the real you is cool.  Being you is the new beautiful. Feel things and react, be pure in your emotions instead of masquerading to be unaffected by those very things that are eating you inside out. Let no-one tell you to shut down when you want to scream out of happiness. You are the only person out there for yourself, be the person you want to be. Life is too short to be anyone else.