December

Suddenly it’s December and I find myself listening to my winter playlist again. It’s a playlist with songs of love and songs of loss. The one that makes me yearn for something intangible. It’s maybe a feeling that I cannot understand, a destination whose existence I know not of, a home where I have never been, a warmth that maybe does not exist.

With the songs comes the realisation that I was never someone’s Heather or could never be someone’s Georgia. A sinking feeling that there’s no reason to dance to snowman on a white Christmas because a forever love feels too heavy to hold in my forlorn heart. Suddenly, I become too good at goodbyes as my tears dry, making promises to love them from a distance because being together does not feel the same. But the cold wraps me up soon, and I find myself missing the sun as it starts to snow, begging the question, “Was it really worth it to let them go?” And suddenly, I find myself at their doorstep, begging them back in my life, apologizing for being so shallow, trying to break down the walls I built and sealed on my own. Suddenly, the memories of those cigarettes after sex become my only source of warmth. Suddenly, it is just the wind whom I can whisper to the stories of my love.

And soon, I am tracing back my memories to August, the time when it all began, when it always begins. It’s so weird how all my stories start in August and end in December, like a pattern that renews every year. And maybe, that’s why I hate August so much. August brings me hope, a hope that starts with an end date, the date already known. And despite every December hurting me so, August does not stop making introductions, it does not stop me from weaving my wildest dreams and building airplanes. August knows that it will eventually all come crashing down. Despite August believes, like the fool it is and I let it, like the fool I am.

Suddenly my feet feel cold, a simple teaser to a dying soul. The days feel darker now, darker than my intrusive thoughts. I can no longer differentiate what is real and what is not. So, I give myself completely up, engulfing myself in all that I have left to call mine, the darkness, the sorrow, the painful nights. And I wait, wait for you to knock on my door so that I can happily die.

Suddenly, it’s December and reality hits. The one where it was never them but always me.

Words, Feelings and Loneliness

How can I say I’m lonely when I don’t like company?
How can I say I’m lonely when I won’t fight to keep a relationship?
How can I say I’m lonely when the thought of meeting a person scares me out of my wits?
How can I say I’m lonely when I won’t share my stories?
How can I say I’m lonely when in the silence of being alone I find comfort?
How can I say I’m lonely when being touched hurts me more?
How can I say I’m lonely when I choose to be alone?
How can I say I’m lonely when I can’t love another soul?

But I don’t know what to call this feeling that pierces my heart
As I sit by my window staring into the vast empty sky
What could it be other than loneliness
These feelings that make me want to hold myself tight
There are words in me I cannot seem to speak out loud
Words that turn into screams when they escape my mouth
As I sit by the window staring at the vast empty sky
What do I call this feeling that hurts me so?

A Clean Slate, A Flowing River, A Malleable Dough, If I May

My mom told me I would have to compromise eventually.

I am not a socially likeable person. I never was, I never will be. But the idea of me is indeed likeable, loveable even. Apparently it’s a package deal that comes with being a clean slate, a flowing river, a malleable dough if I may. It’s the curse of my existence, a curse I can just make peace with and compromise like my mother said or just keep fighting, losing parts of me until I finally succumb to the forlornness.

You see, people mistake my indifference to be a non-judgemetal space, my lack of vocabulary to be a quiet solace, my obsessions to be love, my fears to be acceptance, my laughters that are meant to drown out the voices in my head to be joy, my broken soul to be depth.

Maybe because accepting reality is unfathomable. The reality that I am neither a bed of roses nor that of thorns. Just a nothingness in between who’ll become what your heart desires. I am neither a friend nor a foe, just a pawn to be used to take your own stories further.

People do see me for who I am ultimately. But they will never accept it. They will just drift away naturally, without a thought. Because friendships might wither with time and space, enmity might disappear with heartfelt conversations but pawns are made to be used only when needed. Before and after, what relationship would you even have with one?

People do see me for who I am ultimately. Because I refuse to hide behind the stories created of me. I want to be heard for who I am. I want to be loved for I am. I want to be hated for who I am. I want to be accepted for who I am.

But this path of war is becoming lonelier by the second. The hurt unbearable. And I am scared that someday I will finally give in and compromise. Affirm the world’s ideas of me, actively deceive them, no more just not announcing the truth but actively lying. I am scared that someday, pain will become a choice I made and not just a curse I need to survive.

The Taste of an Autumn Rain

The autumn rain was unexpected.

Of course there were signs of it. In the way the dark clouds were crawling in, in the way my hair acted a bit weird that day, in the way the wind hit my soul sending shivers down my spine.

But still when the rain did come, it took me by surprise. I stood there unguarded as it drizzled on to me. My first instinct was of course to run away, find warmth under a shelter that would never harm me in any way. But I stayed. I stayed as the first drop hit my forehead and slid down my neck. I stayed as it hit my ears, my cheeks, my eyes, my lips. I stayed as the drops got stronger and it slowly engulfed me.

And as I stood there getting drenched from head to toe, I had my first taste of the autumn rain. The autumn rain tasted sweet but had a bitter aftertaste. Like in all its honesty, it was still hiding something. In all the love it had to give me, there were traces of emotions I could never understand. Experiences hidden that I could never be part of. The autumn rain craved for love as I did. But for a love I could not give.

So, just as it had started unexpectedly, it stopped. It left me all alone in the windy night craving for warmth and if not, just the feeling of not being alone. For some reason, the autumn rain left me emptier than it had found me, taken away parts of me I never thought I had in me, taken away the stars I never thought I would wish upon. And as the first sights of winter settled in, I shivered in the cold wind for I had shattered the walls I had built for so long. Now, I am here picking up the pieces, confused and lost, not knowing where to start or if I even want to start again.

A Threesome with Death

I have recently started a new ritual. Every night before falling asleep, I hold a blunt knife against my wrist. I know my anatomy well, at least the at risk areas and how deep the cut needs to be for any actual damage. So with a blunt knife, even if I snap, I’ll survive. Because I don’t want to die, I never wanted to die.

And yet having my life standing on that edge brings me peace. The voices go away and the world gets smaller. Suddenly the world is just my wrist, the knife and death. The knife teasing my wrist with death waiting to get her share.

I have never wished for death but she is still the closest possible existence to what I want. And so I get swayed. The realization that what I want is not possible leads to my moments of weakness and the exhaustion just makes me want to settle. But the thing with delusional people, just as realizations hit suddenly, the delusions take over. And I hope, hope that maybe if I live long enough, my wishes will come true.

With the blunt knife against my wrist, every night I let my madness crawl. Sometimes it escapes in the form of tears, sometimes giggles, sometimes apathy. But it never leaves me for my body seems to pull it all back in when I put the knife down. Ahh the sweet taste of cowardice!

Thunderclouds

A soft growl. A rumble. A roar. And then a murderous screech. Today, the thunderclouds that often seemed angry felt like they were in pain.

Thunderclouds can’t speak, they can’t put their feelings into words. All they can do is make sounds that are often related with one emotion: anger. But is that all they can feel? I wonder.

Today was like always. Like always, the gloom spread across the sky hinting that the heavens would cry again. Like always, there were flashes of light every other minute, cutting through the darkness that would have otherwise swallowed us whole. Like always, the subtle wind was breezing through the gaps between our bare skin and the fabric that is supposed to keep them safe; sending shivers down our spines. Like always, the heavy thunderclouds roamed the empty space ready to pour down at command of the skies.

But today, the sounds felt different. Today, the growl seemed a little sad. Today, the rumble felt a little anxious. Today, I could hear the hurt in the roar. Today, I sensed fear in the screech. Today, I saw shades in the monochrome. And, it felt different.

So, what is it? Have I started understanding the language of the heavens or is this what people simply call projecting?

A bit broken, a little unstable and a complete mess

I am 24 and I have never known happiness
I know what you’re thinking, ain’t that too bold a statement?
I mean, you must have felt happiness some time
That time when you were a class topper and were showered with compliments
That one time you found a dress that perfectly complimented your figure
Or the time when you received your first “Thank You”
Your first kiss
Your first tick on that bucket list
That time your eyes incidentally met those of a cute stranger and he gave you that shy smile
Your first salary
Your first award
Your first recognition
Isn’t not knowing happiness too bold a claim?

Well yes, I’ve been there, all those places
Places where I was showered with appreciation and gratitude and all I could do was put up my fakest smile
Places where my eyes dreamt of love but all I did was bite my lip to suppress that cry for help
Places where my compentency was proven and rewarded but my immediate action was to stash it away and never look at it again
Oh yes, it’s true, I have indeed felt happiness

I am like you, another human being with the same basic biological build up
A being that evolved to develop these stuff called emotions
But you see, feeling and knowing the feeling are just not the same
Just like feeling love and knowing you love someone are completely different

I’ve felt anger, I’ve felt sadness and yes, I’ve felt “happiness” too
I’ve felt pain, I’ve felt joy, I’ve felt hopelessness too
But I can’t explain them to you
We all seek happiness, it’s true and I suppose I pursue it too
But I can’t remember what happiness feels like
My brain a jumbled lump when someone asks what my happy place is
A bit broken, a little unstable and a complete mess
You see, I am 24 and I have never known happiness

Aurora’s Slumber: An Eternal Curse

I was getting better. A lot of things were still murky in a lot of places but I sure was getting better.

It was a long wait. After all, I had forgotten what happiness felt like, even doubting whether such a thing had ever existed in my life before. For all those memories that were stored in my happy place had stopped sparking any emotion within me and I could not comprehend why I stored them at all. And then, that day, I felt it, a nostalgic warmth engulfing me, awakening me from my deep slumber. “Ahhhh Happiness.” I had finally remembered.

Days became brighter. For the first time (as far as I could remember), the sun stopped hurting me and I had this sudden urge to escape my own darkness. For the first time, I seeked light and yes, the light was beautiful. For the first time, I felt alive.

And the days passed by. The murky river became clearer, the puzzle pieces started fitting together. I was getting better.

And then, just like it had appeared, the light disappeared. Happiness now feels like a memory of an old dream and red marks have appeared on my white skin yet again. And just like I had risen, I have fallen back into my slumber of darkness.

A flickering light, a cursed soul, a diminishing desire. The wheel of the spindle turns and the curse takes a new form and I now know the wheel will keep turning, for enternity.

Hanging by a Thread

All these years I have never had a problem falling asleep. Except when I was caffeinated of course. With all the guilt, the hatred, the pain I have collected within myself over these years, although they made me dysfunctional in a number of ways, they never barred me from falling asleep for sleep was my only escape from all these needless whispers, these unclear, needless words floating in my head. People envied this ability of mine, close your eyes and almost a minute later, venture to a place where theories of time and space were no longer relevant. But guess people envied it a little bit too much for now, I’ve lost it. The one temporary exit I had, I’ve lost.

And then the nightmares start. While the brain’s wide awake, the nightmares start. A nightmare where I’m hanging by a thread, a thread that’ll snap and I’ll stab. In the silence of the night, these whispers become loud and clear as they take the shape of a heart that struggles to beat, of nails that struggle to not hurt the body they are a part of, of fists that struggle to not hit the beats out of the heart.

And every night, I lose this war and maybe because I lose it, at some point, I gradually drift to sleep and finally, go back to the place where I belong.

The ghosts that drifted and the ghosts that stayed

In the fall of 2017, I had a minor incident. I took a knife to my wrist when my mom was standing just a few feet away from me. Her first instinct was to pull the knife from my hand and slap me across my face, twice. She hoped that those two slaps would be enough to pull me back to reality. It wasn’t.

For her, my actions were something unimaginable, something that didn’t fit into the world that she had built over the years, something that she could not fit as a part of her daughter. That day, as she sat on the couch, tears streaming down her cheeks, I had never seen her so helpless. That day, she sat stripped of all wisdom and virtues and advice; she sat with nothing else but a tiny request. A request that read along the line, ‘Please don’t do this to me ever again’ and I could do nothing but grant her that wish.

But today, even after two years since the incident, the voices still find ways to get within the vicinity of my ears, the vibrations making my head spin, spiraling into nothingness where some years back I used to store tiny important stuff called feelings. I haven’t taken a single action to try and hurt myself since then and it is very unlikely that I’ll try it in the near future. However, the thought still lingers, floating like a ghost of the past, intangible but very real.