Life Itself

I can tell you what it means, to have misery and joy all combined into one. Knowing that you will be robbed of everything. That every identifiable shred of your tumultuous identity will be stolen, and you will be left, formless. That you will own and tarnish the past and re-create every inch of it. You will lose everything, but what you will retain is the dull sense of ownership; of knowing that you painstakingly created this, from scratch, against opposition. And you will be left with an empty slate, to re-write. I remember it all. Like it was happening now, in front of me. Knowing what would make this perfect, and yet knowing it was impossible. Fighting everything, including myself to make it possible. And then giving it up. Knowing when it would self-destruct. Knowing when I was not right. Knowing when I was. But, also knowing that my brightness needed illumination. That an atmosphere that damned would not only be brutal on me, it would also be brutal on you. Knowing that our separ

Language. Cross out. Words. Cross out. Thoughts. Cross out. But how do I forget That silent intense surreal way I feel around you?

I wrote this for you when you were leaving last year but never shared it with you. Given that today is Siblings Day, I felt like it was an appropriate time to share it. _____________________________________________________________________ Letting you go was extremely hard. Not because I will never see you again, but because I will never see you again like this. We have lived a certain life of dependency for the last two and a half decades now. Just our little, three people unit. Right from the time when protecting you against pain and bitterness was my only priority, to the time when you became the reason mom and I felt safe at night, it has been a tumultuous journey. We have had moments of disagreement, anger, disappointment. But there has always been the knowledge that no matter what, we have each other.  The next time I meet you, it will be different. It will be your home, your friends, your context, and I will be a visitor. Perhaps we may live together again. But things w

Sometimes I see her and pain and wonder where it comes from. She refuses to shine, she rejects any sense of warmth that comes her way, she has a tower erected all around her. My gut tells me to look in his direction. To see the invisible scars he left on her and dig deeper to unearth the visible ones. I want to ask her the right questions, and give her enough courage to tell me their answers. I want to release her from the suffocation that she's suffering in alone. I want to take on all that he's ruined her with, and I want to send it lashing right back at him. I know what he did to her, I know it better than any truth she could accurately remember. I can sense it in such a real way, that her anguish is now mine. I am afraid she'll never break the silence, that she will be misunderstood for far too long a time, that once again, his demons will have their way. Each time, I helplessly look in her direction, almost asking, almost telling. And then I shamefully look away, n

I often wonder about the times before communication methods were so abundantly available. Reading Kafka's Letters to Milena makes me almost long that I was born during that time. There is a certain romanticism in waiting. In knowing that your time together is extremely precious, limited, fleeting. In sending your emotions to someone with no confirmation of receipt. I can only try and imagine what the lack of certainty created - a constant need, a permanently unfulfilled desire, release only in small doses. There is something poetic about reading what someone wrote many days ago, imagining where they were sitting, what they were wearing, how they smelt, as they wrote those words to you. A sense of nostalgia and realism, wrapped together carefully. There is also so much deliberation and intense emotion that goes into the act that it restricts the number of people one can share that emotion with, ensuring that when you do, the understanding is as deep as it gets. It takes t

If you could hear the last need as it echoes endlessly from me to you, Would you hear the stifled childhood scream as it penetrates you? Would my words have the honest intensity of my feelings? Would the emotion come tearing through, unbridled, undeterred, unfettered? If there was no fear of fall-outs, of hurt, of betrayal, of vacuum, Would my expression lash out angrily as you string the sentences together? Would the insane promise of comprehension last across ages and irrationality? Would the words quietly reach you, and land on earnest understanding? If ink could carry all the guilt, the nonchalance, the nothingness of us, Would it tell you, how the empty hollow left inside of you has crushed me? Would it show you my crevices, and their jagged, insistent, desperate stories? Would it smudge the distance between rotten you and rotten me? A question, and the hope for its answer, is all that’s left of you and me.

It's the in between In what is never said between us. What does it take to put it out there? To have it said, loudly. Do you think about the same things? Do you wonder with the same intensity? When I am listening, While I giggle, While I chatter endlessly, Do you perceive the subtle pause? Do you hear the sudden catch in my breath? Do you catch the sudden sparkle? Are you simple, like your words, Like your straightforward stories, Like your child like reluctance, Are you more?