Wax Doll

a wax doll
cowering beneath
your touch-
your touch is
the crackle of a match
striking volatility,
and lighting afire
every last wick
of my vulnerability;
my surface deftly
moving away,
drifting, like water
makes space for
bigger things-
and you’re the one that
brings life and death
anger and passion
at the same instant;
and so, I quiver away,
wax doll,
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
without me?

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On Being Free

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.

Cliffhangers

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.

Learned Languages

Words are powerful. Words are important. But in some confusing, happy moments, words become a person for me. They materialise into a tight-fisted punch across my throat, fracturing my boneless tongue. They impair me in inexplicable ways. In these moments, whether sad or happy, I am motionless. I am speechless. Lost for words because they aren’t inside me, anymore. In a way, my words are my impairment. No matter how much I may try to harness their power, in some situations, they desert me, an empty vessel.

So to the people who have shared silences with me;

I hope the absence of words does not make you uncomfortable. I hope you know that sometimes, silences speak volumes too. I want you to know that at times, I am so full with words that I spit them out of my mouth in silence. I hope you could see how I sew my words into the fabric of silence. it is my favorite language, and one that I’m too familiar with. i have grown up threading the reels of my non-existent vocabulary around this language. i speak it too well, too easily. it comes to me sometimes, sadness. I write my silence in well scripted sadness. And it stays sometimes. In it’s persisting permanency, it stays: it sets up camp in my heart, and makes me bleed out poems in it’s script. I feel like a blank now and then. My sadness, my silence- weaknesses. Both, a chink in the armour. I either feel too much, or nothing at all.

It’s a seesaw, to be honest. the balance tips very often, and I roll over, changing between the two sides. I don’t know who I’m going to be one moment from the next. It’s not very pleasant, to be honest. The insides arrange and rearrange, once, twice, multiple times. Is this how the Earth feels when tectonic plates shift?

Feeling, too much.

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.

On Perspectives.

Today I learned that it will hurt a lot to have your own perspective of things. I learned that even though we might see our unique interpretations as something that sets us apart, they also pull us back to believing the illusion that everything we see is exactly what it seems; that there aren’t more parts to a story than the ones we choose to read. 

But there are. In a world where every element exists in pairs: night & day, fire & ice, real & virtual, matter & antimatter, perspectives too, occur in more than one ways. I always thought I was capable of looking out of the box that limits me to my opinion, that I could see what someone else might want to take out of the situation.

I was wrong. You never really know. 

I learned that a confrontation can help in more ways than it can cause harm. There was a lucid, brilliant clarity, a lightness that I felt about myself as I talked out loud about something that had been pestering me, lingering on in my conscience so ardently.

I am fine, to state my mood in the exact terms. I’m learning how to deal with difficult situations. It is a little hard for first timers like me, but it’s the lesson of a lifetime. I’m trying to keep my emotions in check and not muddle up what I feel and who I am.

So far, this is working out. 

On Changes.

Things are changing faster than I thought they would. I hate change; I resist it, I try to stop it the same way insulators try to tame electricity.

Crying became my savior today. It could wring me out of my self hatred, of how much I was suddenly beginning to despise myself. It feels good when your body gets rid of poison. I was holding onto poison inside. 

I do not want a confrontation. I’d prefer to run away, as always. Addressing the situation uproots too many seeds that transform into tiny nuclear bombs. In the end, we will be the casualties.

Who am I kidding? 

We already are.