Which Month Isn’t Hard?

This month has not been easy. that’s it. It has been hard.
there is no poem in that yet.

But maybe there is a poem in getting up each morning, despite a family of worries sleeping on my chest. maybe there is poem in still being here. maybe my daily survival of myself is a poem. or the way bruises always heal. or how no matter how many times i’m crying in a parking lot, I still know that it’s going to be better. that it has been better.

Maybe me being alive is a poem. maybe writing myself into healing is more than poem-it’s a battle cry. I’m trying the best I can. It’s working with what i’ve got.

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THE OTHER NIGHT

The other night I thought I had a miss call from you. I was too busy to grab the phone. The other night I thought I read a text message from you. It said “ I love you, I cannot live without you. Lets meet soon”.
Considering your feelings and why you feel the way you feel “ I looked twice at the message and it was from my best friend.

The other night I thought I hear your voice – whispering from the hall… mentioning my name but I was too distracted to make of it but I was almost sure it was you.
The other night your favourite song played on the radio. It took to me to the time when we were young and in love. to the time when you were still here.

I quickly realised the truth, and how you’ve been gone for past a month.

The other night I read your last letter you ever wrote to me… ( which was in Aug 2016…on your way to my city ) and the last sentence said. “ I feel it today, maybe I really took very long to come to you, to be with someone whom I love. Don’t know if it’s very late”. 
and to this day I hope that is something you meant. The other night I asked myself why I still held on. Why I still thought of you after all this time. and out of no where my sister texted me – “ because I still believe in you’‘ and exactly two minutes later she texted me back and said that message was meant for somebody else and I sat there and wondered why.
Why can’t it all be so simple. Why couldn’t loving you last a little longer. and why does holding on feel like open heart surgery….

Excerpt of a book I’ll never write

‘’ You wanna know the truth? “

“ Well, the fucked up truth is that not everything happens for a reason.
Sometimes people make the wrong decisions and they’re forced to live with them for the rest of their lives. And I know I should live with mine and my parents should live with theirs because I mean what choice do we have? You can’t turn back the clocks and redo things.
You make a mistake and you pay the price, that’s the cold hard truth about life.

You can’t change a decision you’ve already made, wrong or right. But on the loneliest nights, I look up at the moon and I smile. Because although now we walk different paths, with different people and although I know that years will pass and we still won’t be together just like the good old days.

I’ll always remember that for a brief, fraction of a moment, against all the odds, our stars crossed and I was born. And that will always, always be enough for me”

original


– Excerpt of a book I’ll never write ( via 500lettersforyou )

I THINK AND FEEL AND LOVE TOO MUCH

But my problem was never that I couldn’t love well enough, it was always the opposite. I would love too much. I suppose it’s strangely idealistic of me. But to love always meant to need. To not want to be alone anymore. I loved to kiss, I loved to kiss everywhere. I loved to hug and to hold ( I’m always here for free hugs and kisses ) I loved to write and be written to. I’d write to him every second of every day if i could. I’d tell him everything. About what I feel about the universe, the colour of the sky, the nails I paint, how my table creeks when I sit, how I fidget with a thing constantly when I’m sad, how much i thought of him.

It’s strange. But to love never meant to rest, it meant to keep trying. To keep working, to put all my energy into loving. I’d make a career of it, i’d call myself the best most passionate lover in the world. I’d make an industry of it if i could. All of us who loved too much could sit in a building and love. The building would begin to reek of roses and tears and laughter and paper and ink. We’d only have red and yellow lights, we’d have so many flowers and we’d have no curtains. In love, there is no hiding.

We’d leave the doors unlocked, we’d have no cubicles, we’d cook for each other and we’d clean each others’ back all the time.

I wish that loving wasn’t something looked down on, I wish to be obsessed didn’t automatically mean to be creepy, to not be ambitious, to not love yourself. It’s strange, but love is the only thing i’m good at. But the world has taught me that to love too much is something to be ashamed of. I’ve learnt that i’m supposed to keep myself distracted, as my mother says. That i’m supposed to do my internships and watch tv and pretend i don’t feel it. But i love a lot, i don’t tire of it. I’ve been hiding it a lot, but i can’t stop feeling it.

I think and feel too much. I love too much.

Why should i stop that?

I don’t know if I am at all

Often times I find myself repeating the same sentences to myself,

I am angry,

I deserve more than this,

This isn’t fair to me,

I am angry.

In the pretext of this situation, I must proclaim that I do not fully know how to explain myself, and for that reason nobody understands me. Or so I like to believe, to remind myself that I am still special in some way. Whatever way.

Often times I find myself repeating the same sentences. I am not too sure why I do this. I think it’s because everytime I have bothered to let someone into this weird head of mine- it’s lead to complete and absolute chaos. You do not fight darkness with darkness and you do not fight wolves with moonlight.

I hold on to the terrible things.
It’s a bad habit, but it does not leave and I do not make it.

I do not know how communication works

Do I let the thoughts bleed out of me or do I shape them first? Do I apologise for their existence or do I snatch them back once released?

I cannot remember the last time I opened my mouth and meant what I said.
I cannot remember the last time a conversation didn’t end with a ‘why’

This isn’t what I taught me
I cannot go back to who I was and I cannot figure out who I want to be
If there was a metaphor to describe what this is like, I think it would be

I’m a grenade asked to pass through the neck of a milk bottle

A wooden splinter caught between nail and skin

A bullet stuck mid-air

I waver between living and barely breathing

I don’t know if I am at all

Or if

I am,

hardly.

LESSONS (1) LOCUTION 101

You will continue to suffer if you have an emotional reaction to everything that is said to you.

 

True power is sitting back and observing everything with logic.

 

True power is restraint.

 

If words control you that means everyone else can control you.

 

Breathe and allow things to pass.

 

Dear all.

ON NOT BEING ALRIGHT.

Ever since I can remember I have always been an angry person. I snap at my mom for stupid things(to the point where I’m screaming at her for nothing, and I know its wrong when I’m doing it but I do it anyway) and I over analyze EVERYTHING.

If you were to meet me you would think that I didn’t have a care in the world.
I have been called “fun, bubbily, always happy*, adorable* cute” etc.
The only people I actually release all of my anger towards is my mom, sister, and my boyfriend.

When I am not in control of something, I feel extremely anxious and angry.
I am very good at talking to people and I appear to be very confident. However, that is not the case at all. People who know me well would say that I have anger problems.
I am insecure to the point where I am CONSTANTLY thinking bad things about myself (like how I’m insane, or evil).

I have been dating the same guy on and off for 5 years. I am only 19 and I have never been without my boyfriend.

In a way, I almost feel worthless without him. I feel like if I’m not with him then he will move on and be happy and no one else will ever want to be with me because I’m a bad person.

 

 

1999 SERIES

You never raise your voice to me. … know that whatever it is… that you’re trying to tell me, I promise you, I promise I’ll understand But you don’t have to raise your voice to me.

Don’t raise your voice to me.

You already made your decision!

I understand the oeuvre. I understand the basic mise-en-scene of what you’re saying. I really don’t understand anything.

I beg your pardon?

No. No “however”. Just be wrong. Just stand there in your wrongness and be wrong and get used to it.

You keep glancing over like you’re afraid I’m going to steal something.

You know, sometimes, I don’t even know what you’re talking about, do hell with you.

I thank you,

Actually, I came to beg your forgiveness. I offered you the world and at the first.

I’M NOT SURE WHAT TO TITLE THIS

This is unlike anything I have ever written before. This is not going to be me talking about an experience, this isn’t going to be me explaining to you how tragic my life is or how strong I am for getting through it anyway. This is an apology, an acceptance, an ode to my sadness and to the love of my life. 
 I am sorry. I have a tendency to write to people I owe apologies to.
I’ve been stalling writing this because I wasn’t sure I was ready to understand. But now? I am.

I am ready to accept, to understand and then manifest in myself the changes it brings into my life.
I am sorry. Yet again, I don’t think I have ever neglected anything as much as I have neglected you.
You have tried to comfort me, to show me what needs fixing and show me just how soft I can be. After a whole lifetime of living inside of a shell and starting to turn into it- you taught me that I am so incredibly capable of breaking out of it. You have helped me grow, you have taught me kindness, softness, a gentle ruthlessness that has pulled me in and out of the kind of realisations people have just before they are dying. You have been so important, and I am so incredibly apologetic about refusing to see you for what you have been.
There’s a quote in one of my favourite movies- I couldn’t see you when you were here, and now that you are gone, I see you everywhere.
It is unfair on my part to say that I miss you, I have fought so hard to have you leave. But it is even more unfair to not thank you for your stay- thank you for all that you’ve brought to my life, for all the memories I will hold so close to my heart for the simple reason that I couldn’t imagine having them.
I melt at the mere sight of your face because I haven’t known comfort like this before. A place so homely, you hold yourself down to it no matter how toxic you might make it for yourself.

I am listening to you. I have heard you, and I am grateful for having you around while I did.  

Whatever love we have had was maybe only meant to last us as long as it took me to understand that I am enough and always have been. They say stretching out the sadness is like watering a dead flower, and I am thankful about how wise you are, enough to know when to crawl back into whatever shell it is you popped out of.

I love you immensely, and if you come around again- I will be more gentle.

I will listen, I will accept and I will feel you completely.

I owe you that, and I will give it to you happily. Goodbye.

Love, 

Me. 
 

You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

Don’t die without any scars.

This is your life and its ending one moment at a time.

You are not your job, you’re not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive or the phone you have. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis or the Armani suit.

You’re not the concealer you use or the lip color you wear and the highlighter you use.
You are not special. You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

We’re all part of the same compost heap. We’re all singing, all dancing crap of the world.

“At the time, my life just seemed too complete, and maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.”

“Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.

Nothing is static, everything is evolving, everything is falling apart.”

“Warning: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life.

Don’t you have other things to do?

Is your life so empty that you honestly can’t think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you’re supposed to read? Do you think everything you’re supposed to think? Buy what you’re told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you’re alive. If you don’t claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned.”

“If you don’t know what you want,” the doorman said, “you end up with a lot you don’t.”

“I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”
Didn’t I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?
Can’t I see how we’re all manifestations of love?
AND HENCE, I repeat again,
We are not special.
We are not crap or trash, either.
We just are.
We just are, the same decaying matter as everything else..
and what happens just happens.
And God says, “No, that’s not right.”
Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can’t teach God anything.”

“The lower you fall, the higher you’ll fly.”

“You buy furniture. You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple years you’re satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you’ve got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug. Then you’re trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.”

“Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer, maybe self-destruction is the answer.” YOU GET THAT?

“Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need.”

“I wanted to destroy everything beautiful I’d never have.”

-THE FIGHT CLUB

TO BUILD A HOME

As Cinematic Orchestra plays in the background on repeat, I can’t stop thinking about all the times I’ve lived, really lived under the delusion that these memories and moments and times will come back and I’ll live them over and over till every little detail is etched into my mind almost as if I made them.

I speak to you because I don’t know who else to talk to. I’m surrounded by people who claim to love me and act up on it too. But I’ve never wanted to talk about myself as much as I do now.
Back in November, i started working on my right to express and talk about myself and whine when I wanted to. I thought I earned it because of all the time I stayed absolutely silent for. fast forward 8 months, I’m writing to you because I find myself in the same position. Over and over. There are a few things that bother me right now.

Let’s start with this. I’m nineteen . All my life I’ve prided myself on how I’ve been ahead of my years and now I find myself getting repulsed at the very same thought. My personality, when not an absolute goofy waste of existence feels pretentious. Talking about my thoughts and real things isn’t something I’m very proud of. I feel like I should keep my voice low and my opinion or feelings unheard. Like they’re all an excuse to come off as someone I’m not. But that isn’t true at all. I feel guilty for expressing sometimes. Like I’ve committed a sin by not being rock hard and stone cold. Like I’m disappointing people by not being walking sunshine and rainbows. It doesn’t feel too nice.. It isn’t because they aren’t nice or anything, no. The people around me are great. Just not familiar. I’m not too sure if me talking around them is okay. Or if I’m crossing limits by telling them about my life and how it’s been. Or if I’m overwhelming them with all too much all at once. Or if they have things going on their lives and I’m being a burden. I’ve had the best of everything throughout. It’s not that I don’t want to make the skies look blue again, I just don’t know how to.
And then. The constant tracing back to times I’ve loved being in. Something feels so..strange. Like this big part of me got cut off or this huge chunk of life fell into the unknown. I’m not much for nostalgia. I’ve nearly lost everything i had and I’m still loosing, But things somehow manages to find its way to me, sometimes. I’ve traced things back to right where they stemmed from but I haven’t quite figured out what’s missing.

I’ve only ever heard of voids in chests and emptiness before, I feel it now.
I expressed a lot of love, I really did. But I’m not too satisfied. I don’t know if it’s because I’m disappointed in myself or the way that I said it. Or if I said it too early or if I regret saying it because it wasn’t the situation I pictured in my head. There’s always that one thing that just doesn’t feel right. And although everything else does, somehow something keeps bothering me.
Everything seems so..there. And I don’t want it to be. I want it to shatter or shine brighter or look hazy or something just not be so there.

I’ve lost so many people. Some I left on purpose and never looked back. Some were taken from me, and I never said good-bye.
It’s like I’m treading on a broken bridge knowing it’s about to fall but with every step i take, the previous one disappears and I can’t turn because there’s nothing but a solid void I can’t tear my way into or out of.

But afterall I don’t want myself fixed. Infact, nobody wants their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.

‘Maybe loner is too strong a word, but I’ve always enjoyed being on my own.

And for all the people I can’t get myself to say this to,

I love you.

Please don’t forget that.

IMMORTALS (The Ballad Of Reading Gaol )- OSCAR WILDE.

Each man kills the thing he loves

    By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

    Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

    The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

    And some when they are old,

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

    Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

    The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,

    Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

    And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves

       Yet each man does not die.

Dear diary,

I’m sorry I’m writing to you again. I knew I promised I’d grow out of it and i promised I’d talk to people but I somehow can’t get myself to. My heart is beating so fast. Something’s gone very wrong with me this time, and it’s all my fault. Like always, I feel alone again. But it’s different this time. Someone could cut me open and enter my skin and I’d feel distant. They could pour themselves into my heart and I’d still feel unloved. They could paint my brain with happiness and I’d still find a way to be gloomy. Is this normal? Sometimes I feel like I live my life in third person. Everything I do is so strange and unfamiliar to me. It’s like I’m watching myself from someone else’s eyes, and their vision is monochrome filtered. How do I stop this? I recite my deepest most vulnerable thoughts to myself in the shower and forget them by the time I’m in my clothes. It breaks my heart to know that there are sentences I’ve said I’ll only ever hear once in my life. I’m starting to feel like the background character in my own story, I’m not too sure I like that. How do I stop this? Some days I can feel my heart sinking to my stomach, it’s happening right now too. My lungs feel rusted. My head feels worn out and my skin feels foreign. I don’t know how long it is till my third person story of a life starts to feel mine. I just hope that when it does, it’s nicer than it looks like from the outside.

Love,

Me

SKIN

I do not
have delicate
fingers
or
frail
wrists
or pale
palms
with traces
of blue
green
like cross roads
on paper thin
maps
printed
journeys

no

I have bruised
knuckles
scraped
palms
torn wrists
calloused
scarred arms
I wear with pride
marks
stretched along
my forearm
as if I drew them on
a language
they don’t recognise
it reads
I’m a warrior
a knight put in
an armour of skin
flawed
carved
etched with history
look at me

17.01.17 ( 19 VISUAL JOURNAL )

She, like everyone else in the world, is a person of need. The fact that her needs coincide with a few just makes her more of a mystery than she herself cares to be. She is simple minded, driven by emotions, just like everyone else. She feels that it would be easier this ways, less complicated than having to say the words.

You can lie with her, make love to her, hold her for a while, but the moment she feels she is done, she would get up and leave without a word. Why should she console? Why should she comfort? Why should she care when no one else cares?

She feels the need too, for the warmth of care along with the heat of passion, for the tender hand on hers along with the firm hand that would toss and turn her world, for the hand that lets go and the one that grabs her hand pulls her back for a kiss before she leaves.

She has enticed many and has been seduced by a few, what makes you think she would let you in her world and be sure that you would not wreak havoc and leave like those men she knew? Persistence, desperation, need, greed, lust, desire, she has seen it all in men when they want her. She has seen the evils of men and faced it all the more. No, even if she feels that the words you say to her are true, that your actions are real, she would not just walk back to you.

Such is an enchantress.

img_3422

19 YEARS OF LIVING BEYOND.

DEAR ADDICTION

I’m writing this to you
Telling you were through
I can’t take you anymore
Don’t know what I liked you for
All you did was wear me out
Now I know what your all about

You came to me with promise and joy
Now look at all the things you destroy
Families, lives, bank accounts you see
You ruined it all with one little tease
Look at the way you make me feel
Then you take it all and want me to steal

Why can’t you just go and hide
Somewhere far away where I’ll never find
Everyone at home don’t understand
How you rip me apart , then lend me a hand
I keep coming back thinking inside
Maybe this time I’ll make you my bride

Then I sit and wonder why
Why do you really want me to die
Thousands and thousands come to you
Hoping and praying you’ll help them thru
Then they fall for your lending hand
Only to realize your nothing but a scam

You promised me heaven and sent me to hell
You ruined my life and then wished me well
Watch me now as I go on my way
I’m washing myself of all of your pain
So you and your power can just leave me be
I’m taking my life and setting it free.

FAME IS VANITY’S BAIT

I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room — I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful — awful beyond all — but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me…or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude. I believe i’ve become a pro at faking things that whatever/whenever i fake, it feels so real. It’s being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I’ll quote Ibsen, “The strongest men are the most alone.” I’ve never thought, “Well, some handsome guy chick blond will come in here and give me a pussy-job, rub my clit, and I’ll feel good.” No, that won’t help. You know the typical crowd, “Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?” Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn’t want to hide in factories. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself with myself . I’m the best form of entertainment I have. Let’s drink more coke.

I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish… You see, it is difficult to get all which I want. And then when I do not succeed I get mad with anger.