Life Itself

There was a jungle full of roots and thorns and swamps and danger. A forest of destruction and emotional deforestation. I slowly navigated it. Sometimes going in circles. Sometimes moving forward. I marveled each time a root caught my foot. What was it that kept it growing over years and years buried deep inside a dark, quiet place? I caught my breath when fear gnawed its way inside and pushed me to turn and run. But I never turned and I never stopped. The urge to cross over, to transcend, to transform, always pulled me like the earth's gravity. And then I saw the sunlight catch the dew and I knew it was over. What do you do when all the questions are answered, when you walk through all the ugly underbelly and face all the angriest demons? Does self awareness become the cover up? Do you finally turn in any direction? Does realization make you different?

That moment. The little indecision, the fearless declaration, the long wait, the crashing, the rising. I have read poetry that makes me wish it was written for me. Heard words that woo and swish me off my feet. I have felt eyes as they quickly duck another way. Heard endless gushed stories that seem like I belong in them. When you know and deny, when you perceive and pretend, when you understand and ignore. It is the catastrophe of almost touching, the devastation of roughly feeling, the trauma of nearly believing. There is that. And then, sometimes, unexpectedly, there may be intensity, and comfort, and calm, and dependability, and assurance, and passion. Sometimes, tragedies give way to an everyday romance.

The damages are all still fresh. Not like fresh flowers and fragrance, or freshly brewed coffee. The cracks are blunted. Like the scent of a pressed flower, the aroma of a receipt from a coffee date many decades ago. The wounds have healed but the salt still burns. Not like a lost limb or deafened ears. The burns are scars. Like an itch on a phantom limb, a scream in a vacuum. The rage has calmed but the soul still simmers. Not like the death of a loved one or being cheated on. The memories are faded. Like the ache of watching love get Alzheimers, their eyes catching light because of someone else. The desperation has dissipated but the urge still tingles. Not like the gasp for more oxygen or reading every last word for a favorable interpretation. The emotions are stunted. Like learning to breathe under water, comprehending the words never meant to be yours. The sound is still hollow, the darkness is still dull.

I look at you and wonder who you are. Who are you when you are alone at night? When there is no one beside you. When emptiness fills the room and the only sound is the whirring fan. I wonder what crosses your mind as you close your eyes and drift into sleep. I yearn to uncover your last thought, to discover its essence - to discriminate between that which signifies fear and loneliness or that which beams of achievement and pride. Do you hold onto something when you sleep or let it all go? Are you a dreamer or do you find dreams wasteful?  When you partition yourself from all your appearances and devices and pretenses and identifications, are you still beautiful? Are you still recognizable? Or do you become a little bit of everyone? If I could exist around you then, without altering you, would you still seem daunting and mystical? Would you be your first self - the child? Or would you be covered up in years of heartbreak and deceit and restrain?  Most people in your world are

I like sitting by my window and staring at the metro. Most people find it an inane architecture, almost a spoiler on the skyline. I find the ferry-like lights of the train cabins extremely beautiful. You know that "happy place", where everything seems alright, this is mine. Sometimes I like standing in my balcony late at night and watching trains pass by. Or the lights of the city. Or the silence. Hearing the silence is always the most fun part. It doesn't last very long. Eventually the solitude makes me uncomfortable and I go back inside. Why do we reject that which brings us peace and go back to the clutter that traps us? Why do we let the shackle of reality stop us from projecting, dreaming, becoming? Why does the "as-is" fetter us? Why does the sound and light and confusion allure us, and the awareness and calm and isolation elude us? Sometimes I close my eyes and lie on the grass, even float above it. I watch the chirping birds and hear the light bre

I can't explain to you in words what is unarticulated even in my head. You ask me questions, plainly, innocently. You demand answers, animatedly, angrily. I cry, because thats all I can do. You wonder why I seem so numb, so impossible to break into, so hard to comprehend. I try to talk to you, through my eyes. I send you words, without using my voice. I almost touch you and slowly pull back. I scream in pitch-less silence. I hope you will connect the erratic dots and make sense of the imperfection. I plead with fate to let you into my mind, for one moment. I can see that I am speaking in languages that are almost unintelligible to you. I sense that my imploring is having close-to-no impact on you. I know that we are trying much harder than we should be. I hear our laughter, and tear it down to its naked essence. I hold our memories and turn them upside down, one at a time, gawking at points that turned into today. Were we in parallel universes, unaware of our own misgiving

The first time I learnt to let go of someone took many, many years and hurt a truckload. I remember trying every way to reach out but I was only a child and this was my first heartbreak and he was immune to pain and hatred and blame. He had been through too much to let a child's desperate need for definition, explanation, pull him back. He shut me out, almost mercilessly. He said, "you are always in my heart". I never understood how that could be true. Now I look back and realize how much that taught me. All my protective covering comes from the pain you left me with. Over time letting go has become easier. I now know that nothing is permanent and I appreciate the fleeting pleasure of companionship and the momentary sense of security and the fleeting hope that maybe loneliness has a cure. I have come a long way. I have moved far away from where you left me. And I have grown to understand that even when wounds don't heal, the pain numbs and reality becomes a shade