Things are looking up.

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.

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Searching

i’m urging for a home
i never seem to find.
itching for the comfort
that let’s me melt into who I am.
but I never seem to find
the place
the person,
or is it words?
maybe I’m looking for
home in the seclusion
of four walls that
converge at corners
facing away in anger.
maybe i’m looking for
home in the arms of
my ex-lover;
maybe i’m searching the
drawers for old letters
that might bind me
to a true origin story.
maybe, yes, i long for homeliness
in the sound of some words-
the comfort,
and luxury of the knowledge that
someone’s here for me;
that they’re going to be
there for me.
a steady rock, no walls
or cement or compromises;
no holding back;
someone I can snuggle into
on Sunday mornings
and drive to work with
on Mondays.
someone who says,
all my favorite things
in our native language of comfort:
love.

11:44 PM

On nights when
the demons come sit by my bed,
I find myself slowly
undoing the threads of my knitted thoughts
and discover things I was
never meant to remember.
I poke my needle through
the fabric of memories
and punch a hole into every inch
that smells like you.
on nights when
the demons come sit by my bed,
it feels a lot like being with you.

Façade

Sometimes I’m convinced
my face is made out of the iron armor
soldiers wear at war;
for every inch defers
repels
and protects me
from wounds of swords
that are words.

I’ve been bruised before
and I know I will incur pain in the future
but for now, when my
words have deserted me in my present,
I seek refuge
behind the shield of silence,
and the protection of a face
that only knows how to smile.

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.