my destiny is tightened around my neck like a noose and i
have been tipping my toes
on your fault lines, hoping
you wouldn’t let me down so often as to
wish me a jump to my final fall.
Regardless of feeling too much, i can’t bring myself to write.
Putting my feelings into words makes me anticipate that some bad piece of reality is going to twist them somewhere down the line. That, my happiness would be jinxed if i laid it on paper.
So, no textual records of my happiness exist. Only fleeting memories of jovial days, and nostalgic reminices about the past find their mention: in my consciousness, or my journal.
So here. This is me, putting forward a word of positivity; of hope. I’m at peace, and i haven’t felt so shitty in the past couple of days.
a wax doll
your touch is
the crackle of a match
and lighting afire
every last wick
of my vulnerability;
my surface deftly
drifting, like water
makes space for
and you’re the one that
brings life and death
anger and passion
at the same instant;
and so, I quiver away,
shy of fire,
hiding with shame,
running away to save grace.
i let you burn every inch of me,
and you, annihilate.
but what will you ever be
“But I don’t like to be tied down in one place. I want to be free- to go wherever I want, when I want and be able to think about whatever I want …. People whoose freedom is taken away always end up having somebody. Right? I know I don’t want to live like that.”
–Haruki Murakami (Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage)
These lines made me smile. Everytime I feel bounded to something or someone, I begin to itch, desperate to wriggle out of those metaphorical chains. Just like birds in forests reared with freedom, I would never be able to sustain in a cage: shut off, and isolated. I wish I never have to live like that: with chains arresting my feet when I’m just about to fly. I don’t want to live grounded, or governed, living in a place that is meant to contain me. I wish to never be contained.
Not all stories have the luxury of finding the end.
Some, prolong and stretch until their elasticity thins into thread like fragility, weak enough to snap with the wind. These stories wait a long time, but are nevertheless lucky enough to arrive to a resolution.
Some find themselves disrupted, broken like a mirror shatters itself into pieces, never to be whole again. There is no hope for these stories.
Then there are others, still, which are abrupted, like an intermission, but continue to exist. They prolong themselves in the hope that they would resume, find their ends in time. The characters of this story continue to live independently, consumed by their own little universes, somewhere believing in the illusion that what started would end, that they would someday cross each other and pick right from where they left off. But this never happens; the intermission goes on eternally. These kind of stories find themselves deprived of the luxury of finding an end; of obtaining a formal closure.
They leave their characters dangling at the edge of a cliff, barely hanging on, somewhere hoping to find a conclusion that would never arrive.
We are this story.
There is simply no tax or fare you need to pay for feeling too much.
Feeling too much is like drowning yourself in alcohol you know is not healthy to consume. Feeling too much is the nausea that comes after, curable, but time consuming. Feeling too much is the rent you pay for opening your arms far too wide for someone who does not love you back.
So when I say I feel too much, I need you to know that my insides are tangled up like reels of unbound thread soaked in gravity, raining from the clouds.
There’s a lot of slow, endless falling.