I carry my heart not on my sleeve, but on my fingertips for the very simple reason that I feel things with them, just like I feel the love for you. They’re the first to go exploring around the unchartered territory of your mysterious self. They’re the ones who sense your muscles tighten when you’re not happy with how things went at work and they’re the ones that comfort you when I graze my hands through your hair. They’re the first to get burnt when I bake for you. They’re the ones who heal me. It is because of them that I can play the music you love. They help me write the words to sing. My fingertips are what you search for, in the middle of the night, to hold on to. So yes, I carry my heart on my fingertips; not so that it can bleed every time I prick myself when you give me roses, but because it is how I’ve learnt to love you.
Children are wiser than the adults who think they know so much. As we age, our brains are trained to think certain thoughts and look at things with a pinch of salt. We lose the touch of humanity we were born with. We lose who we were meant to be in the process of becoming what’s socially acceptable.
There are moments when you catch yourself humming a song and that song isn’t something you’d generally hum, so you zone out and try to remember why your brain might be willing to recollect a song- word by word- when you don’t even remember thinking about it for half a dozen years and you don’t generally remember things you did yesterday, let alone remember song lyrics. And then, like a bolt of lightning on a summer afternoon, it hits you; it’s the song he had sent to you as a random instant message on some fateful evening as a part of a mundane conversation. You rue the day he had put that memory into your head. Why, Lord why? *silent wales*
Why do people choose to leave, or why do we decide to disown a few people along the way to what we think is our nirvana? I had made this decision for myself (and the other involved party, obviously) on more than one occasion. Thankfully (?) they came back more because they knew I’m stupid and I didn’t really want them banished from my life. But, they were my friends. MY people. They were the safe net I used to free fall into and what else was I to do when they burnt me as I fell?
But this guy, these guys, who waltz into our lives and make us believe that fairytales exist are the very guys who also make us remember that tragedies have always been bestsellers. So, no. I refuse to succumb to humming a song lent to my brain by someone who isn’t welcome. If only I could command my mind. Heyyy, isn’t that how it is supposed to be in the first place?!
Go away intruder, I say! Shoo Shoo Shoo from my mind. These ear buggers are a nuisance. Now that I know why the song was stuck in my head, I googled how to get rid of it and apparently I now have to listen to the entire song because the human brain replays anything it finds incomplete. Is that why break ups are so hard?! ..because we are hard wired to remain in agony if something ends prematurely? Oh lord, is that bad news for me, or what?
Time to listen to a terrible song sung by someone who isn’t even a singer by profession. Hurray, not.
I almost miss the sound of your voice but know that the rain
outside my window will suffice for tonight.
I’m not drunk yet, but we haven’t spoken in months now
and I wanted to tell you that someone threw a bouquet of roses
in the trash bin on the corner of my street, and I wanted to cry
because, because —
you know exactly why.
And, I guess I’m calling because only you understand
how that would break my heart.
I’m running out of things to say. My gas is running on empty.
I’ve stopped stealing pages out of poetry books, but last week I pocketed a thesaurus
and looked for synonyms for you but could only find rain and more rain
and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, like an orchestra.
I wanted to tell you that I’m not afraid of being moved anymore;
Not afraid of this heart packing up its things and flying transcontinental
with only a wool coat and a pocket with a folded-up address inside.
I’ve saved up enough money to disappear.
I know you never thought the day would come.
Do you remember when we said goodbye and promised that
it was only for then? It’s been years since I last saw you, years
since we last have spoken.
Sometimes, it gets quiet enough that I can hear the cicadas rubbing their thighs
against each other’s.
I’ve forgotten almost everything about you already, except that
your skin was soft, like the belly of a peach, and
how you would laugh,
making fun of me for the way I pronounced almonds
like I was falling in love
– Shinji Moon
New person in my life, Hey! It’s so good to have you. I feel like I’ve been rummaging around for the longest time to find you be a use you’re an important part of my jigsaw. Do you know how difficult it is to finish a puzzle if you don’t have one of the clues? You’re the clue. Hell, you’re the walking and talking answer to the final number on my sudoku mystery. Phew.
Did you know I dance like a crazy person when I drink? I also dance crazily when I’m sober but that’s something you’ll find out soon enough. I mean, the moment I’m slightly comfortable with you, you’ll see me jumping on the bed or singing “I like to move it move it”, quite loudly.
I have tiny hands. I read the horoscope at the end of the day to corroborate it’s truthfulness. I play with my hair when I’m sleepy. I play with anyone’s hair when I’m sleepy, actually. I’m the best hair player you’ll find, trust me.
I like being consumed, being looked at in a way in which I know that I am the one and only one. I like being the centre of the focus of your attention. I enjoy being the only one.
Let’s take it bit by bit.
Hey, new person in my life! What’s up?
Sorrow has a way of creeping in and breaking you down when you least expect it. It hits you like the thrashing of a whale’s tail; you wouldn’t know how it feels till you’ve experienced it and I hope you stay in the dark forever. But…if you have then you’ll know what I mean.
It hovers in the background for the longest time while you prance about unaware, and then, it devours your mirth in one strong right hooked blow to leave you breathless and wondering why what happened just happened. Then, there’s no way of escaping it. There’s no way of running away from it; it doesn’t matter if you’re a triathlon runner or a sprinter- you will not be able to escape a winner from this race unless you embrace the sorrow.
It breaks you down and swallows you from the inside. Bit by bit you become aware of how you are shaped and each crevice of your body makes you aware of its existence. Everything aches, most of all the full sized aortic pump in your chest that beats and fights to keep you alive. It pains so much that the only thing that can make you not feel its presence is if you curl up into a ball and lay like a foetus for hours.
The tears that liberated you when you were melancholic and young can no longer redeem you. They cease to be helpful so, after a while, you stop crying and stare at the ceiling of your room with the vacant stare in your eyes that your reflection is so familiar with. You stare till your eyes burn, and then finally, you close them only to see a moving picturescope of everything that makes you feel that way. It’s the blockbuster called Your Life and Imagination. All the things that have happened and everything you wished you would’ve done to stop it from happening play in a loop while you debate whether it was better when your eyes were stinging.
Sadness is like the blanket that isn’t big enough to cover your feet and face at the same time. It’s not comfortable and it isn’t comforting. It leaves a part of you exposed and vulnerable. It leaves you cold. It leaves you scared. It leaves you wanting warmth and just a little bit more of it so that it engulfs you completely or a little bit lesser so that you can put it underneath you while staring at the stars instead of the stupid ceiling.
It is a busy world full of people who either cannot or don’t want to read your mind. You know it isn’t their fault so you don’t bother anyone. You don’t knock on their doors to cry. You don’t give them a phone call lest they’re doing something that’s more important than you and let’s face it, is this really that important? So you wallow alone and battle it out as much as you can. You surrender to it. You raise the white flag and sleep. Sleep is the solace and the only escape from it, except when you start having nightmares. That is when shit gets real. Mother? Would you run to the one person who isn’t too busy for you, ever and show her your dark side. Boyfriend? Won’t he be scared by what the shark called sorrow has done to you- gut wrenching, soul crushing horror that you’ve turned into for that one night? BFF? Doesn’t she already deal with enough of you already? Piling on your issues isn’t the solution, you’ll feel.
No body is there. Sorrow has no friend. Sadness likes loneliness and they go on dates and their make out session comprises of picking at your soul. You’re the menu, obviously.
So for one night you allow yourself to be put in a platter, garnished and served to be chewed on and spat out. For one night, you break down completely. You allow yourself to think of the things that you repress; like how the relationship isn’t what you hoped it would be, like how you want to say you love someone without feeling scared of them fleeing, like how wish he’d just be there more often, like how you wished you family was more family and less arguments, like how you don’t like the way work is, like how you wished you could stay at home and just lay on the familiarity called your bed and look out of the window for hours without being questioned. You wonder about all the possibilities that you’ve missed and why. You looked at everything in your life through a dark, blue tinted glass. You wish the people who are busy would call you without you having to tell them. You wish they’d think of you and let you know they are thinking of you. You allow yourself the luxury of skipping work the next day.
And slowly, the night fades into daybreak and you do end up skipping work. Clean the house, dust the room, sweep the floors, arrange your books on the shelf and stack your life back part by part. You take your wounds and lick them to soothe yourself and sing a song that reminds you of the days that weren’t as bad. You pat yourself on the back for not drinking the previous night and thank yourself for the good decision of sparing yourself a hangover.
The next evening rolls in and it’s already slightly different than the previous one. Your boyfriend calls you. Your best friend texts you. Even if it is because you’ve deleted your existence from social media and that’s how they noticed, but at least they cared.
You take small steps back to normalcy and come out of it a fighter. And, although you can still feel sorrow lurking around, the blanket feels bigger already because you’ve never really liked sleeping stretched out.
When you think you love a boy who doesn’t love you back
retrace your steps to the first time you met him
realize that it was you who extended your hand to solar flame and introduced yourself
you wore a smile so fearless that he could do nothing but stare
notice that his blank expression just blanketed his wonder
you have intrigued him from the very beginning
but he was never looking for you
remember how you called him out on his bullshit
said “don’t act like you don’t know me, we have a class together”
with so much confidence
that he recognized your voice before your body
he almost saw the woman in you
see, you’ve caught him looking in your direction a dozen times
always wondered why he never saw the green light in your eyes
he approaches everything with caution
his heart, an octagonal stop sign
but you’ve never been one for traffic signals
you’ve run your share of red lights
and believe that hearts are shaped beautifully even when they’re broken
realize in that moment
that his heart was never yours for the taking
but you’re not a thief or a villain
or a superhero
the red cape was always a little too big for your shoulders anyway
and he never wanted saving
when you think you love a boy who does not love you back
retrace your steps to the first time you had sex with him
realize that euphoria can never be trusted, after all she’s just temporary
you found yourself
laying in your own loneliness until the sun gave you permission to walk home
remember how badly you wanted to let the tears fall…baby girl you could have started the healing process early
when he doesn’t text you back but still does weird shit like watch all your snapchats
don’t take it personally
your voice still scares the shit out of him
when you think you love a boy who doesn’t love you back
overthink everything because hopefully at some point you’ll just stop thinking
in fact close your eyes and let the relationship project itself like a motion picture across the insides
of your eyelids
I promise, it’ll help you see clearly
trust your instincts
you’ve never been one to love someone who does not love you back
remember the first night he let his guard down and stayed over
how you curled your body into his and interlocked fingers like you interlocked minds
remember how fucking somehow started to feel a lot more like loving
because he actually kissed you back this time
remember his night of surrender
when he not only let you see his scars but feel how he got them
how his eyes welled up tears and you just held him
remember how he told you that everyone sees his superman
but no one recognizes clark kent,
that all that flying away when you want him most
was his own fear of being grounded
that that green light in your eyes might have just been his kryptonite
you realize that it is he who wears the red cape
because all he’s ever known is saving himself
and you’ve forgotten about yourself completely
until he’s gone, moved to another city
and you’re left overthinking yet again
when you think you love a boy who does not love you back
trust your instincts,
he loves you back.
– From ‘MissFit Pages’ on Tumblr
I’ve realised that I’m afraid of making memories by association. For instance, I haven’t yet told any guy about the song I want to dance to with him for fear of the simple fact that one day we might end up dancing to the song, thus making a memory that will last a lifetime (such is my memory) and the next day, we might break up; hence, leaving one of my favourite songs with a bitter aftertaste. For instance, if I ever do get a tattoo it will be on a day I go to the parlour alone and get it done without informing a soul, so that its permanence is not marred by anything unpleasant that may happen. For instance, I haven’t kissed on any New Year’s midnight despite having the opportunity to do so, because that’s something I want to be kept special for someone who is worth getting it ruined for for good (probably not the right word)
At the same time, and I know I’ll get a lot of flak for saying this, I enjoy making memories.
I’ll fly down to surprise you and shower you with gifts because I don’t remember the dates on the calender that well and the memory will remain without any concrete repeptive evidence. I’ll sing you songs that I wouldn’t remember singing. I’ll love you like there’s no tomorrow and rightly so, because what if there isn’t? I’d rather make a new memory with you than repeat something you have done with the rest in the past. Being a first was important to me but with age and time, it’s proving more and more difficult to be a first at anything personal, because everyone wants the same. So, I probably settle for being the last at everything.. but last at everything with you. (And I use the word you as a generic term, for friends and the SO). I’ve realised that being the last one is more special than being the first one. Imagine being the last person I think of before sleeping each night. 🙂
If I do anything permanent with anyone nowadays, it isn’t to just make a memory, it is to trust that the person will not leave me. Departure has a huge significance in my life. I’m not upset about it, in fact, I’m quite used to it by now. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had to bid goodbye to my friends because of my father’s transferable job (and Facebook or Gmail wasn’t a thing back then). Goodbyes are difficult, I wouldn’t disagree, but I’ve gradually grown used to moving away from people so much so that I’ve stopped trying to make anything permanent with someone important who shows even an inkling of leaving me.
What if someone does end up kissing me on new year’s and then leaves? I’d probably go in a new year’s kissing spree to make it mundane and then it wouldn’t matter anymore. I’d desensitise myself from the thrill of it and all will be hunky dory again. Right? Right?
While I have the strongest yearning to spend my time with people I love, I am filled with the fear of losing them, so I stay aloof. This may seem like a redundant and stupid thing to do for self preservation but all I do is hold them less tightly than I should so that they’re free to do what they want without having to think twice about hurting me. Saves everyone the trouble. Does it really, though? I hold them so dearly in my heart. I do! I’m not scared of a commitment, I’m scared of an ending and thus, never end up committing. I want permanence but end up fleeing at the first chance I get. I probably need to be tied up and be asked to shut up and not think so much but I asked like this, I think and therefore, that is exactly why I am.
The most permanent thing I’ve ever done is to put up my relationship status online which majorly backfired, haha. So that’s that. Oh, and I made pancakes for someone, a friend. That’s permanent because nothing is more permanent than food.
Love, love. x
Too much to ask, is it?
To want to know
How he looks when
What does he do
While deciding what to wear
Or what to order as dinner.
Too much to ask, I know.
To want to know
How he sighs,
How he moves when he
Holds a pen,
Holds my hand (?)
Holds the door open,
Holds me when I fall (?)
Holds a puppy,
All I want is
The whiff of perfume.
His feet around mine
Under the table,
Or even on the bed.
..on the unmade bed.
The feel of his silk tie
Around my wrists,
Or against my feet.
..my quivering feet.
Too much to ask, too fucking much.