in between
sheafs of white paper
emotions lie dormant
waiting to be pruned
whimpering under the strain
of being silenced
the weight of thinking
leaves unholy dents
crass tempestuous swirls
that lines the last sheet
patterns that show the depth
of pain
each circle carved with an invisible blade
How easy it is to take offence. How simple to form a grudge. How unchallenging to smirk at a smiling couple. But, honestly, is anything in this subjective, temporary life easy? The brevity of the moment lends to a certain simplicity that is in actuality a complicated computer code. Pages of forethought go into that sickly stare that might melt a fragile heart. It takes a lot to feel that level of anxiety and anger. It builds over time, boiling with unmitigated sorrow, spiced with teaspoons of regret and derision. When that movement arrives it is more satisfying than an epiphany. Every single gesture and syllable rolls off of your body with such ease that it feels like fitting into the right shoe.
I beesech you to not provoke my tender mind that is hibernating in a dream that allows me to forget the harshness of this capitalist community.
We all have our struggles. I agree. Each of us contemplate (or not) about the minutest things we need to do, things to get done, people to smile at. We either go through the motions or we consciously battle each action, reiterating the possible consequences of doing something absolutely surprising. There have been numerous days when I have sat in quiet, outward meditation with a tornado raging inside my chest, making it hard for me to breathe because I am constantly trying to suppress the choking sobs that are aching to spill out of the purple treasure box locked in my heart. I was confident that I could keep it locked and safe where it belongs. But I realized that I can surprise myself. I let myself go too far. I let my thoughts wander and left my heart unguarded. (If you want to stop reading, you may. But this is not a sob story about how I did something and now I’m recounting my experience. It is a [probably sad] attempt to throw an objective eye on certain recurring events.)
Inside the privacy of my room, in my mind, and in my heart I’ve long pondered the necessity and need to be rational. I used to be relatively subjective about everything in my life until it started hurting. When you wear your heart on your sleeve, when you easily let another into your mind castle it is difficult to retrieve yourself from them and push them out of the castle. When I looked into the mirror I did not see myself but I saw a figure fashioned by society – meek, nice, happy, friendly, a second thought. I didn’t see what was wrong with that until I saw myself disappearing into my over sized clothes and fake smiles. I couldn’t face the real me simply because I didn’t know her.
If you were to ask me if I have met her yet, I would say no. Not yet. But she is in there somewhere. Past all the sad nights, wounded hands, red eyes, and stories I’ve written, I believe lies the road to discovery. But this path to redemption is fraught with holes and insecurities. It always seems easier to wallow in self hate and self harm. But that isn’t getting me anywhere. I’m still stuck in rewind, going over my memories, inhaling the white noise like bathing salts.
Is there a middle ground? I don’t know. Do things get better? I don’t know. Do I know where to go? I don’t. Do I want to work myself out of this harmful conundrum? I don’t know. As long as there is one person I can talk to then maybe recovery isn’t as bad as it seems to be looking right now. I’ll just leave everything as it is for now, cloaked in presentiments.
P.S: And while you’re thinking or doing your thing listen to ‘Same Dark Places’ by JR JR.
I walked into a room full of painted memories, dripping red, soothing blue, genteel green, all meshed into each other like a royal tapestry of forgotten history. His-story or mine? Questions of grand insignificance pound the walls of my conscious mind as I quietly wrap my tongue around these effervescent vapors. Dreaming of a satisfied life I collected these inconsequential images like Polaroid shots and stuffed them into a duffel bag that was as dark as the bounteous night sky. Change, oh change comes upon us when we least expect it – a thunderstorm, a new-born babe, a volcano, a smile, a postcard, a chance to love again. Dressed in a turquoise gown with a white corset that gently suffocates my being, I heave and gasp for another chance, another opportunity to make things right. I looked around trying to find a familiar face that would understand my predicament. But each figure floated around, faceless. I resigned myself to a corner and let my mind fold in on itself.
The idea of the ‘popular’ has enticed me greatly. I’ve fallen numerous times trying to be or become what the popular prescribed. I’ve tried to listen to the chart toppers and pretend like I know these artists who croon about love, sex and drugs. I’ve succumbed to the temptations of this world that hound me relentlessly. I’ve said hurtful things now and then and it has pricked me ever since. I’ve dressed in ways I think the world would like to see me and I’ve only felt the cold wind on my thighs. I’ve eaten and drunk from fancy looking places only to go back feeling hungry and thirsty. I’ve seen beautiful sights and felt the sea breeze caress my face only to go back to my bed feeling inconsequential. The popular demands too much. I do not have what it asks for. I can barely sustain my broken life. I don’t have the right tastes, the right skin tone or the flair to be the cliche. And after 21 years I think I’ve finally realized that it is all a sham anyway.
You feel it coming slowly. Very slowly. It creeps up. When anything and everything anyone says ticks you off. When words begin to irritate for no reason. Every month it happens. The persistent irritation is different. This melancholic hatred is panoptic. It’s not tunnel visioned. It’s not severe. It is simply existing. But it will flow like a waterfall heading down that slope with all that built up kinetic energy that it crashes down with a whirl of white that bathes it you in a wondrous terror. Divine love, agape love. The need to feel something overwhelms the need to survive. It goes above and beyond the present choking reality that expects you to tell and do, to think and act, to be and keep being. The walls are no longer walls. They have turned into soft tissue that lines my memories inside my pulpy skull. I can no longer differentiate between me and that. I have let myself dissolve into a basic solution that covers me inside out.
The more I draw from my reservoir of memories and feelings the more rattled I become. No, those aren’t my bones. Those are the bones I collected over the years. I couldn’t throw them away. I’ve kept them safe in that black box that no one is allowed to look into. But hey! You’re reading this now. Are you that lucky soul who will be the last person I talk to before I leave this wretched earth? I don’t know. Neither do you. The black box which isn’t really black. If I remember it was purple, then beige, then some shade of blue, then white – pure, innocent white, then crimson, then black – the omniscient black. Therefore, this isn’t a black box. It’s been painted over and over and it’s just a grimy old disgusting thing. But, the box isn’t the point here. I was talking about the reservoir. The more I dip myself into it the more fucked up I feel. I can see the mistakes again. The lost opportunities. Unsaid words. Unwritten letters. Jealousy. Hurt. Longing. There are tears in my eyes already. What can I do?
I hate the word I now. Everything begins with an I. Eliminate the I and the world is a better place. There goes ego and self pompousness. There goes me, I and mine. It’s you that we need. Well, who am I anyway.
Over and over the voices preach, opinionate, shout,
murmur
the sweet cadences of blind faith
lurking beneath the pansy,
frightened by the modern individuals’
stately voice.
Dregs of conversation lie back
on the table
filling the cracks with brown jake’s.
Cackle of chocolate wrapper,
glistening red in the rain,
blistering emotional torment spilt on the sidewalk for the world to mock.
Go home dear child. And drink lime juice. And take an aspirin.
Gravitas. Uno, dos, tres, slip.
Needles clink like unnatural wine glasses
meeting for the first time.
Wrap the wool around your eyes and
walk.
Keep walking till you brim over with painful confession.
Let the solitude drape it’s itchy arms around your bony frame.
Parameters by which you should live:
The quiet of the night had given way to a sullen morning with bitter coffees and french toasts. I watched as the bread was delicately dipped in the mixture and carefully placed on the simmering pan. My mind wandered as I remembered the last week. A rush of emotions overwhelmed my tired mind as I pushed away thoughts of high heels, uncomfortable conversations and the act of smiling. Leaning back on the velvet couch my hand mechanically fashioning an origami bird from bits of tissue. I looked down to see that I had messed it up. Yet again. Sigh. I crumpled it and threw it into the dustbin. I picked up a piece of purple craft paper left behind by my younger cousin. I gave it my full attention as I slowly folded the sheet into incomprehensible shapes. After a few minutes of fiddling I smiled as I saw a tiny bird in the palm of my hand. I placed it on the table and pushed my body out the couch. I left my bird to ponder on things I was too frightened to face.
conceal the love
dress the fear
trespass my concrete facade
The lament of a soul in blessed ignorance bites through the coverlet
dispersing a fetid atmosphere within the goblet.
Drench me in the magic of sinister petulance
since my flaccid demeanour is holding me captive.
Captivated by insolence,
crude indulgence of a metamorphosis
foggy presumptions batter chores unattractive.
Choking on unknown sorrows I waddled back to my room and let the remainder of the evening go by in a dreamlike flurry of unconnected actions. text, text, text. wait. glare. burst into tears. text, text. stare at the dim rectangular screen. burst into tears. At the back of my mind – Remember last year? When you carved those beautiful parallel lines? Those patterns that gave you a momentary relief from all the mental and emotional pain? Look for it again. In a frenzy, I desperately searched for my tool. It was missing. I racked my brains, going over every possible situation. Not in this carton, not in that drawer, not in this box. Where the fuck?! Knife. I rushed to my friend’s room and retrieved the loaned knife. It wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. I left on my table and curled up next to my phone. Lines. Lines. The pattern is waiting my love. Tortured by the thought, I resumed my search and came out successful. Under the soft glow of orange lights I cut through my skin. It didn’t bleed. Gripping the tool tighter I lashed out and still didn’t see red. I sat back, held my wrist between my knees and with all my concentration, drew the famed parallel lines. It bleeds now. It bleeds.
koinophobic diaries 