Dear World

Somehow sometimes in the briskly fleeting innocence of the moon, right before it sets, the world is utterly perfect. The silence is peaceful, the air still. The sun is breaking in the opposite corner, ready to move on. At moments like these, the dreams of yesterday, all the pain and brokenness seem forgotten. Just for a moment. Just for a second. And then, in a blink, all the magic is gone and all that left is a memory. A touch. A kiss. A stillness in the chaos.

In a parallel universe, I’d like to believe, this moment lives on forever. This magical moment is broken into almost infinite pieces, and you are allowed to jump from one frame to another. And as soon as it ends, it begins again. The perfect groundhog hour of serenity. And nothing ever dies. No hearts ever break. No pain is ever felt. The monotone of the hour is the nirvana. The sky is forever a war between the deepest blue and the sweetest purple.

In that hour, I’m too scared to touch anything around me. For I am impure. I am vile. I am filth. I’m the only thing present that makes this scene less that perfect. Just that thought of myself polluting this purity nauseates me. I am the grey scum in this war of the gods of light. That is when I decide to scrub myself until I am clean again. Scrub myself until I bleed.

As I step into the river, the coldness wafts over me, like its arms is where I belong. And it feels like I’m back home. The fog is so thick, I can hardly breathe. But somehow, this suffocation feels like a penance necessary. So I decide to walk deeper and deeper into the stream. Beyond the rocks that pierce my feet and colour the water crimson. Beyond the moss on the riverbed, that makes me slip and lose the sight of the sky. Beyond the last breath in my lungs, when I decide to let go and let the water heal my bare body. Beyond my last thought when all is peaceful again.

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

 

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In Secret, Between the Shadow and the Soul

How beautiful is a heart that can love,

Can love with nothing in return,

not even a mirror.

A heart that can bear to bare the fragile fragments

that have grown from the broken rose bushes

amid the thorns of the past.

How beautiful is the immensity of the blackness

that swallows the universe, but for the tiny lies we call stars.

The blackness that is a painting of my own hollow soul,

craving for the infamous dawn

that will bring it back home.

How beautiful is the lucid touch of love

that has you drunk in an instant

without rhyme

at the edge of the sea where reasons go to die.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

 

The Tower

I have lived with walls beyond scaling,

I’ve also slept under open skies.

I’ve drenched myself in voices of those I ignored,

I’ve scattered to ashes, been reborn and died,

hoping I would finally belong.

But I never did.

And I think I never will.

So it’s back to the highest towers for me,

hoping and believing someday I will heal

enough to venture into the world again

and not be a foe to pain.

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

A Stormy Day

Pure satisfaction cannot be denied when the weather is in perfect consonance with the storm in your heart. To see the wind gurgle up dust and leaves and just blast it off the heads of all things and everything. To see chaos when that is all you feel inside. To feel the anger of the sky in the thunder brewing in the air that is far too heavy with the grayness of emotions. And to be maneuvering through it all while the world seems lost in the sudden darkness.

Because, finally, you can paint a picture of your pain for the world to marvel at. Finally, your pain has meaning in the most unprecedented way. Perhaps, not that unprecedented, for paintings of storms have existed before. Maybe the most poignant way then. Because the world cries to you about the pin pricks in their feet while you have been suturing wounds they refuse to see. And if they do, they diminish it to weakness of the skin to bleed, weakness of the blood to flow, weakness of the mind to feel.

You have to be brave, so that it’s easier for them to hurt you again without guilt.

You have to let go, so that they don’t have to deal with the ugliness of your broken heart anymore.

You have to be okay with it, because you are meant to suffer as all the happiness in the world is reserved for them.

You have to accept that they will crown their selfishness while you lie in a ditch gasping for air right before you choke to death.

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

On Facing Tough Times All Alone

I’ve been absent from my blog for a while now, and within good reason. And here I am, running back into its arms the first chance I get, by that I mean the first time in a long time my brain isn’t too blocked to spell out my feelings, literally.

Last month has probably been the most difficult months of my life. I was already going  through a rough patch in December, and it reached a whole new level by the end of January. And by the beginning of February, I was weeping my heart out and trying to get through one of the worst things that life has flung upon me. Weak. Broken. Alone.

It was the time I needed someone the most and I practically had no one to turn to truly, although the words along the lines of, “Do let me know if I could do anything,” were vomited over a hundred times by a hundred different people. No one cared enough to understand what I was going through or hold my hand. People just said it to check the chore off their list, or at least that was how I felt. All I wanted was someone to hold me while I sobbed into them, someone to let me voice my fears and help me calm my mind without passing judgment, and there was no one I could turn to. I’ve never felt more alone or vulnerable in my life.

I get that people have their own lives and own wars to fight. But the thing is that I’ve always been there for them, no matter what. I have been sensitive enough to let go of my selfishness in order to help them bandage their bleeding wounds. And that I think has been one of the biggest mistakes of my life: I have put other people above my own needs in their bad times and expected them to love me the same way. Or at least appreciate what I did. But people lack the common decency to acknowledge the wounds someone has undergone sheltering them.

So what do I take away from facing this difficult time on my own?

I am strong as hell. Anyone can rise up to the challenge despite their fears and pain.

I never want to have to be this strong again. I faced hell, all alone (yet again), and I just want to rest.

I need to start respecting myself and my needs more than I do. A little selfishness is needed to save that part of your soul you give away, that will help you in your time of need. No one really gives a shit about you other than you yourself. But if someone is there to hold your hand through it all, especially without you having to ask for it, hold on to that person. Never let them go. Because that is rare and people don’t do that.

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

Maybe I’m addicted to pain

Maybe I’m addicted to pain,

hiding it within the sockets of my twisted body in the 3am silence

every night,

masking it with the lull of the morning paper

and candid coffee

that I gulp down without a conscious thought,

every morning.

 

Maybe I like the tears I can command to rain down

on the things I hate to hear,

The things I cannot respond to

until the next morning, half past 11,

because every morning,

the storm in me wants to devour the storm around me,

after I have made my futile bed

and combed my hair,

half past 11 the next morning.

 

Maybe I’m still holding on to the things I should let go,

the things that keep my wounds from coagulating,

the things copulating and multiplying,

maybe, because it is who I am.

 

I’m the pain

that I hide under my hide,

even though there is no one who would dare notice it.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018. All rights reserved.

What a low feels like

If you’re hoping to read a post poignant with meaning and sprinkled with metaphors and hope, look away. This is probably going to be a bare and raw write up with no artistic value or literary merit of any kind. You see, I’m at that low in a trough where you lie at the deepest point in the pit wishing you didn’t exist because you’re so tired of trying to dig your way out. But that’s the problem. You try to dig yourself out but only fall deeper and deeper. There’s no escape.

I’ve dealt with depression and dark days throughout most of my life, and honestly I thought it would get easier as I got older. It’s quite the opposite actually. And now that all I see is darkness around me because things have gone south, it just makes it all the more worse. I feel so uncomfortable in my own body, like the wind’s been knocked out of me and I’m gasping for air. My tears have found a permanent place right behind my eyes, just waiting for the slightest sign to cause a tsunami. Everything just feels so wrong and I have no idea what to do to make it right. In fact, it feel like I shouldn’t even bother trying because I’m not worth it. It’s my own fault that I am suffering the way that I am, so I probably deserve it.

There’s also an enormous sea of guilt, because my pain in the vast degree of suffering in the world is as insignificant as my existence in the universe. It makes me feel worse than I already do. I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve experienced pure happiness. It could be because I’ve stayed in the blackness for so long, and it just keeps getting worse with every passing year. How do I make it stop. How do I make it okay. Will it ever be okay? Is that even possible? I’m scared, so so scared it’s only going to get worse, that next year this time, this pit would feel like heaven.

I want to cross my arms and fall backwards into a pool. When I’m completely submerged, I want to hold my knees so that I sink right to the bottom. And then I want to scream my lungs out.

© That Girl in the Fray, 2017. All rights reserved.

Tears

Make space in your soul for what lies ahead, they say.

Forget your memories, forget your pain, forget that heart frozen in the blinding rain, they say.

The only way I know how is to let the salt flow, let the heart see, let the eyes know.

 

My tears follow Newton’s third law: they snake down my scorched cheeks but let my soul soar.

 

My tears let me know I’m not as numb as I thought I was, that chloroform and walls haven’t made a zombie of me yet.

 

I feel; I’m sure of it now.

I breathe; I didn’t think I did for a while but the gasping makes me sure of it somehow.

Lying there behind my eyes an inch away from blinding laughter.

Lurking there an inch away from the cracks, the crashes, the disaster.

Falling in the wake of pride,

Falling in the shape of non deserving strides.

 

They are mine, the tears, the pain, the memories, the salt.

The ability to start the waterfall, the ability to anchor a halt.

 

You have no right over it, no claim; you cannot demand them.

The sweetness of liberation is mine and only mine.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2017. All rights reserved.

 

 

I fly

I wish words came to me as easily as you paint the world

the flick of your brush puts me to shame

I am humbled at the beauty you capture

I frazzle at the details of your strokes

I wonder how you have the power to make a blank canvas raise my hair

 

In the distance a robin is singing and I can feel your kiss upon my bare flesh

In the distance I am flailing and falling

because you are not here with me

I might just fall into the sea

 

But here you are!

you are in this canvas I hold

your slender fingers moved over it like once they moved over my body

you captured what that picture of us together couldn’t

 

I tried to write it all down but I couldn’t

I quilled down how raw I felt when I was with you

The moon waxed but I couldn’t find the words for how I felt when we danced

and you pulled me close

I tried to imbibe the smell of your skin from when I hugged you goodbye

I failed

I fall and the sea seems sweet beneath my wings

 

But you with the flick of your wrist and the magic of your soul

Do things that I never can

 

In the distance I can hear Icarus being told

to neither fly too high not too low

But the sun is glorious and I love the air

The sun is glorious and you make me soar

 

Will the myth repeat itself?

Shall I too fly above the gods?

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2017. All rights reserved.

The Beauty of the Mess: Letter #1

(This is an epistolary fictional story-series)

Dear E.

It is very unlikely that this letter will ever find you. Besides the rare possibility of me getting over my vanity and finding the courage to send this to you, there is the glaring hiatus in our correspondence, of 2 years 4 months and 26 days to be precise, that dampens my hope. Then there is also the question of you using your old post box that forbids me from thinking otherwise. Or if you even live in the same city. Or country for that matter. There are a million reasons why this letter shouldn’t find you.

But life is a long shot. Life has never made sense to me, so I’ve given up trusting in reason or signs of any kind. I’m not the believer that I was once upon a time when you used to write to me. And even if the ink and paper from my hands lies in a rusted metal box for most of eternity, the paper yellowing, the ink fading off into the air like my words and emotions, I will find a sense of calm in it. It will satisfy me that I tried to renew our friendship before I grew old and died. I tried to fix things when the world around me fell apart.

I’ll come straight to where we left off. And in all honesty, I was as angry as I’ve ever been in my life. I waited for seven hours on that rusted black bench in the far left corner of the Rose Park in your precious city, where I was supposed to meet you. You had so eloquently described it in your letters to me as your favourite place in the world, or to quote you, “the world you knew”. I wonder if that has changed in the past two years, if you’ve traveled to the far away mystical lands you always adored and admired.

You’d said that the dilapidated park bench gave you hope in hopelessness whenever you sat there eavesdropping into people’s lives, forgetting about the dilemmas of your own. You used to call it “the beauty of the mess” that life was putting you through. I tried doing the same while waiting for you to show up, while imagining you in your contemplating colours: wondering, worrying, waning. It upset me even more, because it made it extremely hard for me to hate you. And I hated you for what you did to me. Loathed you. Detested you. I was disgusted by you.

The beauty of your city was dust to me. It was smoke and ashes and garbage. And I swore, as I sat there rotting away on a rotting park bench in a rotten city, to never write to you again. I swore to cut you off and forget you like you forgot me. I felt stupid for not asking for your address or phone number, or even your real name for that matter, before flying halfway across the country to meet you, a stranger I had never seen or spoken to in my life, except through letters written to a post box.

But here I am breaking my oath to myself, falling into the path of vulnerability again, for you to hurt me all over again.

In all that hurt and pain, I took another decision that I shouldn’t have, that I probably wouldn’t have had you showed up that fateful day. I can’t help but laugh at my sheer daftness; at the fact how my life would be completely different than it is now had I let the fire of hate and hurt burn down to ashes rather than adding more wood to it. I wouldn’t have been a broken man sitting in a lone cabin in the middle of an abandoned sea shore putting ink to paper in this flickering tangerine light. I don’t even have a phone or television here. It’s just me, my pain and a few empty canvases I plan to paint my pain on for my impending project.

Let us let go of what happened. You didn’t show up two years ago; I’ve accepted that now and all that has happened since then. But throughout all of it, through the anger and the impulsive decisions, the fleeting illusionary happiness and the everlasting agony, I’ve missed talking to you. I’ve missed looking at the world through your eyes. I’ve missed your metaphors and poetry. I’ve missed you.

I’m not asking for an explanation. I’m not even expecting a response. But if my words find you by a twist of fate, know that no matter what I’m thankful to have known you in this lifetime. I’m thankful to have stumbled across your pen name on that god awful pen-friends website. I’m glad I decided to write to you. I am glad you decided to write back to me.

Your friendly neighbourhood

Achilles

Ps: I hope you’ve read the Iliad by now.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2016. All rights reserved.