You’re hurting and I know.
Trust me, in this fight you’re not alone.
You have your demons and the person broke your heart. You have your reasons for shunning out people right now.
I understand, I really do.
Sometime ago my heart was bleeding, too.
I had nobody to put a bandage on it. I had nobody to seek refuge in, but let me tell you that I am here for you.
I’ll bandage your heart and try fixing the bruise.
If not? we’ll sit down and talk.
We’ll talk about all things that bother us, when we’re blue.
Its okay though. Please? Take it easy.
Broken hearts and flu’s aren’t my favorite, either but we have to work with it.
We have to work with what life throws at you.
So, I know you’re hurting and blue.
Trust, me I’ve been there too.
Not a good place as I should say but I had no savior and made it through.
In your fight I’ll hold your hand and be there for you.
Because, life is as kind to you as you let it be and we’ll be brave to fight our demons, conquer and rule.
The inside of the room was reduced to rubble and thick dust covered whatever remained. Bleak sun rays entered the room and illuminated it how a thousand cannonballs of colors collide and disperse producing nothing but white in the end. The light reflected on one of the desks remaining covered with heavy dust. She could still read words written in white thick marker, “Heart shaped box”. At once, a face came to her mind and she caught herself smiling. Even standing in between the ruins of a place she once cherished, there she was, standing and smiling at the words. Of course, Selena had written them. She loved Kurt Cobain. She remembered how Afghani down the end of the market sold old cassettes of American and European bands at high price because it was forbidden and you had to be careful in purchasing them. Her walk down the memory lane was small lived and soon she found herself sneezing because the dust was getting to her. She pulled her scarf ends over her face and only her eyes could be seen as she examined the room. It was as if she wanted to soak it all in, the before and after of it all and never let it out of her memory. She wanted it deeply engraved on the density of her cerebrum.
The room smelled of gun powder and smoke with a tint of pine smell from the forest nearby. It’s a miracle how nature has the tendency to mix with even the catastrophically ruined things in life and make them appear beautiful or still give them a small piece of beauty so that they too can glimmer like nature does in all its glory. The walls that were once covered with bright posters that she and her friends made, were now torn and some on the ground. A piece of the wall from the left side of the room was completely on the ground and the bricks scattered along the way giving room for animals to enter-mainly mice-to come and make home. She heard the birds, she heard the rattle sound from down the street but it was unfamiliar. The sounds she used to hear so often during the old times, the sounds that were familiar back then now carried unfamiliarity in them and she could sense it. Some sounds were missing like laughter, talking and mainly joy.
She walked over the broken wooden chairs and distorted desks. The blackboard still had 12/01/2015 written on it. Present 25. Absent 2. She saw chalks on the floor spilled out like a psychedelic pattern and the teachers chair intact. She saw a piece of poster on the floor and picked it up. Sweeping off the dirt it read, “Ye apki class hai, isay saaf rakhna apka kaam hai kyun k safai nisf iman hai” (This is your class and keeping it clean is your responsibility because cleanliness is half of faith).
She read the lines a few times and then looked over her surrounding-ruined. How was she to explain to God if he asked? That religious extremist won’t get that they just took half of her iman (faith) from her in the process of destroying her school.
Addicted to everything and anything
Wanting all or nothing
Dangling between extremes and no midpoint
Either gain the world or destroy it
I walked down the road I used to walk a million times, years ago to meet you. I wondered how time had changed and how we had drifted apart suddenly and then gradually. I recalled how early morning or afternoon I used to pace down the street among crowds of people. Each step increased my anticipation and the swarm of butterflies in my stomach unleashed a new feeling as I grew nearer your place, hoping to see you on the same couch smiling back at me.
It has been ages since someone loved me like you did. Someone held me with the same eagerness and warmth that you held me with and whispered love into my veins that seeped and made home in my bones. Each step I took down the road and each corner reminded me of you, the hunger and love I held for you back in those years. I smiled but I swear my heart ached and the dead butterflies in my gut cried because, even they miss the way you used to make me feel.
Remember, how you always held me close enough. I still remember how you tasted and how your scent infused with mine. You would call me silly, but sometimes when I smell a similar one? I think about you. It is weird how a fragrance brings back so many memories.
I walked the same path again and the weather was the same, gloomy, dark, windy and the sun peeking out a bit. Just the way we liked it. I paced down the streets but now with a heavy heart and slow steps because I wanted to take the walk down the memory lane slow. There was no urgency in my walk and to be honest? I tried my best to relish each step and recall what I had with you. We lost it. I changed. You grew up.
If given another chance? I swear I would walk right back to you like I always did and collapse in your arms like they are my only refuge. I would repeat each mistake, each innocent sin under the curtains drawn and dimly lit room because you were the only one who gave me my first rush of butterflies when I had an empty pit.
They say that in your broken places, you are stronger than before. I disagree.
You are not stronger but decayed. Your are plagued and infested in those broken places with hate, hurt, agony and pain. Yes! You are not stronger but in those broken places, you are dying.
What in the world is more stronger than a dead person?
Simply, feeling nothing is a blessing. You are dead in those broken places and you give it a positive name, ‘strong’. You know the truth and so do I. Humans have optimism to cover the bitter reality of life.
It is said that if a person loves the places you are broken and dejected from? It is love. No, if a person loves parts of you dead then it is love.
It is difficult to love the dead for long and sooner we forget about them. It is easy to love the living for presence makes it possible.
Dead or living, we all hope that someone might love us. Someone might cherish us. The only difference is, the living hope that it will come true and stay forever.
The dead hope it will come true but rot into nothingness, like everything.
You see the clouds in dark glory claiming the night. Bitter cold that seeps loneliness in your bones.
Its just you who popped another pill and gulped another drink. Blood twirling down your naked wrist is a ballerina just starting her show.
Your heart beats against your chest in a desire to be let out. The cold in your ribcage is killing it and you hear howls of pain, agonizing calls of help from within yourself.
Remember, you killed all your saviors and bid a farewell to those you liked.
While, lovers make the angels sigh to be humans behind closed doors, you make the devil be proud of not being human.
Let madness dance in the air as you lay staring in open space. Infatuation with voids is a developing cure to all that your soul cannot bear.
Its after midnight. Your voices shunned. The screams hushed into a corner and you lay as the crimson shade dances on your skin, thinking?
Life is a bipolar bitch and I am its abusive victim with no escape.
Somewhere out there a person under the grey sky is making rope from jute
Laboring away his life
Struggling to feed himself and be alive
Dodging death and poisons
Somewhere out there a person in his dingy little room is tying a noose
Preparing to embrace death
Deaf to life around him
Walking towards death and poisons
It’s ironic, you see?
Some struggle to live
Others struggle to die.
You know your are dead but you feel your heart beating and your lungs breathing.
The curtains are closed and the shimmer of the day still peeks in to your dark abode. Under the layers of blanket, you’ve comforted yourself.
4 in the evening and you had another glass of whiskey, two pills to put you down because one never does the trick.
The voices from the street tone down as the drowsy state of mind engulfs you.
What a lucky son of a bitch I am, you think to yourself, after mastering the art of not needing people in my life..I’ve mastered the art of not giving a fuck about time as well.
So, underneath the sheets you pat yourself on the back and fade out to nothingness.
Today is officially cancelled.