Seasons that dwindle on, leaving behind fragments of who I used to be. Heartbreaks at home and tea rituals forgone. To understand acceptance. To travel back into your own soul and stare at yourself- to the mess you’ve made and how bravely you continue to wear it on your sleeve. Hearts on display in the biting breeze of a December that awaits. In my mind, I go forth. Streets of Shibuya glistening in the wake of a soft spell of rain. The 1975 plays from across the room while the smell of some old perfume wafts in, a nostalgic overdose. I am learning, I am becoming. Not quite sure what though. Somedays, bitterness crawls through and settles in the dusty old corners of my heart. Despite it all, I reek of love, I bleed affection. To consume it in small doses, like a rat nibbling on leftover bread. Sanity must be honored. Thankfully, I lost mine years ago. Maybe that’s what allows me to go through seven stages of grief and come out of it both unscathed and destroyed. Dualities and paradoxes. Maybe this is what life amounts to- battles and victories. With your own self. As I continue to travel further into my subconscious and live with my reflections as my alter ego, I wage wars and there’s blood. I don’t really know what to call it, so I call it love.
The tryst between comfort and chaos. The cowardice at choosing the former. Wanting to embrace the symptoms of your own delirium but being so disconnected from the self that you observe your own madness as an outsider. Finding shelter. In words. In humans. In dreams. The seemingly same sequences and how the brain refuses to be fooled into accepting them everyday. Singularities that you once breathed. Now you watch them perish. Not because they have ceased to exist. But because you have. Discourses with the body and the soul and how the world reduces it all to mere dysphoria. Disillusionment doesn’t happen when the world fails to replicate your ideals, it happens when your own reality crumbles into fragments of futility. I am no sun but pessimism doesn’t run through my veins either. All I am is a collection of my multiple lives- all lived through during the course of one single day. In life, I suffer but in my own death, I’m reborn.
The dichotomy of distance. To have but not hold, To want but to be helpless. Bones that ache for they aren’t being held. Longings at blue midnight hours that slowly melt into lonely sunrises. They all want me when I want myself the least. To desert one’s own shadows and to search for someone else’s. Someone who can bring back smiles on soft bruises, someone who can light matches to dispel the darkness within, someone who can take my sorrows far away or maybe sit by the riverside and watch me weep so that we could go home with no tears left to cry. Memory is hazy, time is money, heaven is a heart and two arms and nostalgia is an old friend that fancies long visits at strange hours. What’s one to do? Old cities, old lovers, old stories- I’ve left them all but they just can’t let go of me and so I hold onto fragments of ashes of an era so ancient; so ancient that remembrance serves as a questionable cocktail that leaves nothing but a bitter aftertaste and a smile etched by the hands of sadness herself.
I feel like my days of rabid journaling have become a thing of the past. Constant re-invention. They gulp down drinks while I swallow the skies in their entirety. How come everyone’s words feel so crass and bitter lately, like rattling trains and construction sounds. Ever so jarring. Sometimes, I think of myself as an eternal passenger which is ironical because all that surrounds me is four walls. Plush prisons masquerading as warm homes. No home for me though, none. I feel, almost behave like a vagabond now. Pink Floyd and an evening breeze. Noir movies and bitter coffee. Fighting. And sulking. And dissolving into thin air. Smokescreens everywhere. Comfort costs a little too much, misery piles on free of charge. This world, this life, it goes from fireworks to extinguished fires. All I want is to swim in blue estuaries and drown in love. Wishful thinking. Or maybe it’s just a shadow of a glorified existence that I wish I had. Shadows. Plato’s allegory. Thoughts and how they never die- just like life and how it goes on no matter how tedious it gets. To slip into intimacies, to descend into anarchy, to befriend one’s own angst- there are rewards to be savoured and battles to be won. For now, I’ll just mumble my daydreams out loud hoping for the birds to hear them and take them away to their picnic spots of migration. Correction: to their alternate “homes” that help them survive.
Daydreams of the most sensual kind, with breaths that linger and passions that never die. These afternoons have become too sultry for my liking and awaiting rain before the onset of an arid summer is the only optimism that seems to run through my veins. There are far too many things to do with you in the day and far too many things to do to you in the night but such is the burden of the boundaries between us- when this reality gets too much to bear with, you take a dip in my daydreams and so the endless cycle of this love-sickness begins. What wouldn’t I give to taste you, to feel your warmth, to fall so deep that there’s no way out, only in. To slip into an intimacy of this kind takes eternities and to sustain it takes epochs and yet, every time we talk, it feels like new galaxies are being birthed inside my tiny heart. Maybe someday, not far from today, we’ll dance the night away, tipsy from a love that happens only in movies and yet, the Gods were kind enough to make sure we found it in each other and now that we have, the only thing left to do is to hold onto it till we close our eyes forever.
“Sleep, my love, reawaken the optimism in you.”
I see you with my eyes closed, it’s not a dream.
Wordless whispers travel in the air,
a whiff of white lilies to comfort the senses
and yet, we remain, quietly gleeful.
It’s a skill for our bipolar selves,
we rise like the waves of the sea
the pathless skies we meet, our wings are left free.
But the inevitable fall, like the Black Plague
death screams in our longings, our deafness-the shield.
A whirlwind carries us somewhere far
among the blue hills, you walk noiselessly.
When disappearance takes forms in you,
your flowery scent remains with me,
I carry it in my heavy pockets, for my heart’s too full already.
The breeze returns but brings your absence to me
I taste my tears under a starless night,
the pain of our parting is too much to take in.
I close my eyes, now it’s a dream.
I have slept, my love.
My optimism spells your name now.
Abstractions of the most peculiar kind. The conversation of the moonlight and the midnight cloud bursts. Fragmented realities. The silk of our tongues. Words like wounds and words like painkillers. We own this entire papertown. The other ones may fade away or sink into the depths and crevices of oblivion but not us. You’re something flung out of space and in the layers I’ve not seen yet lies my transient home. Crystallized breaths and an affinity for the unknown. The hours roll by like they mean everything and nothing reducing us to the status of servants and slaves in the eyes of Time. Show me the essence of this existence and I will surrender. How fleeting these moments of magic are and how quickly they disappear into the realms of this unnatural world. It hits us too hard. The sun, the moon, the equanimity given by their light tries to reach us but we are plain and uncouth and primitive and not even in a way that evokes primal passions. And yet, I can’t help but feel it in my black veins. There’s dark matter in our wombs. It pricks us when we smell love. All the restrained movement in our limbs is born from this. The day we will let go of these inhibitions will be the day we will leave this garb of morality behind and become the sinners we know we’ve always been.
These daydreams strangle me with a passionate grasp, they clutch me till breathlessness takes over and leave me just as I am about to die of ecstasy. If I could, my hands would run all over your body and soul alike till I’ve stripped you off naked because beauty and sin need to fuse into each other till they’ve become one. They can never be separated, for that would be one casualty I cannot afford. These desires run deeper than you can ever imagine or understand. Volcanic eruptions and midnight fog pales in comparison to what we are. The entire universe starts and ends at our feet. We’re grand yet mediocre. Steeped into the seas of profaneness. If the gods ever tear at my flesh, they’ll find crimson perversion. I don’t claim to be an ordinary human whose life is spent doing the same old acts patterned in pedantic squares. Give me something mechanical and watch me destroy it to death. It’s not weak to give in to your whims, I say do it day in and day out. Breathe out puffs of apathy from that cigar and spread the grey ashes into the abyss of the society. Weak is when you stop chasing these fantasies, When you become afraid to feel them living inside you. Do not let them slip out of your grasp forever or this war will rage on. To feel is to be vulnerable and to be vulnerable takes strength and courage. The sand of this eternal hourglass will lie suspended in the cold air the day you revel in your dreams and when that happens, I promise you, it will tremble your bones with a vigor and wonder you never knew existed.
The light from the old bulb dies down slowly and in the fading of its iridescence, I find myself drunk in the very idea of your flesh. It’s mine to own and yet, your wings take flight and disappear before my eyes in an instant. You’re a known memoria, like the one Kurt Cobain sings about. Every crevice, every scar and every dream- only if you could see yourself through my eyes. Birthing fantasies at odd hours, I think about the collapse of the universe around me, within me. Everything seems to unhinge itself from the invisible clutches, it’s like a candle melting away softly in the dead of the night. Dissent is our drug and without it, we lose ourselves in the dirt of this existence. The grandeur of your garb leaves me in awe and makes me question the impossibility of it all. Scenarios of sensuality. Nyctophilia. An act of art. Gravity cannot contain me. It’s one of the gifts I have. Reveries and stars. They’re my everything. This kind of sensitivity doesn’t come easily to many. They’re all soft machines, encoding for their impending demise. It is one of my sadistic pleasures, to see them all behave the way they do. But sometimes, this cocktail I drink so fervently, it degenerates into dysfunctionality. In its wake, a rush of warm feelings render me strangely tipsy. So many of them. It feels like an overdose of a wrong prescription, that of love. But, it can’t be it. Oh, the way it consumes me entirely. Head to toe; every vein, every cell, every atom. All the time, it finds its way back to you. It’s always been that way. It’s both a blessing and a curse to see you oblivious to it. Your eyes, they seek to call me names of an eternal affection. When you’d look into mine, all you’d see is the lust for control. I don’t really know why my mind wants, almost needs to sink your body, every inch of it, into my kingdom of calamity. You produce waves and I savor their magnificent sight. You are the forest I tread when everything seems to be lost. They say, we all come with a baggage. You’ve helped me to not only unpack it, you’ve taken the baggage away from me. To the distant sea with all those waves and you’ve left me with you and I don’t know what to do except for loving you till the end of time.