“That is the thing”, the voices whisper, “pretend or give up” and there is an urge to reach out to someone at God fucking 2 a.m in the morning with the words, “Help me”. But, I don’t because anxiety screams, “why the fuck would someone be up at 2 a.m in the morning on a Sunday?”
Contemplating on ways I would like to ask for help without actually appearing weak. For you see, I’ve pretended to be strong for so long that these self imposed restrictions make it hard to reach out or break down.
It’s hard to ask for help when you’ve been on the other end. You’re the helper, not the helpee. You’re the anchor at the bottom of the ocean that does not let others drown. You save. You don’t ask to be saved.
The realization that I’m drowning comes in too late and there is no end in sight. How does one swim against or with the currents when they were made to sink?
But that is the thing, “you cannot drown at the bottom of the ocean” it whispers.
That is the dilemma. You’re going to suffocate but it won’t let you die. You’re going to be in the dark for ages but this won’t let you die.
You sit here at 2 a.m talking about drowning in a nicely lit room but you’re suffocating and the world outside doesn’t know.
The only way to deal with this is to make art out of your personal tragedy. Coping, is the most bravest word in the dictionary because it shows the determination of an individual to survive against all odds. It is a depiction of standing against the strong waters at the bottom of the ocean while every particle is willed to drown you.
Tomorrow is another day. Another day to ask yourself, what is tougher? Pretending to live or trying to die.
I’m drowning. I see no God down here. Is it too late to say, “Help! I think I won’t make it.”
“What matters the most is how well you walk through the fire”, Charles Bukowski had written in one of his books. He turned me into this mess of a person who has a weak heart layered with iron.
“It is okay to cry, you’ve cried it all out of your system” ,I say to myself curling up in between the sheets.
“Oh! Who the fuck are you trying to deceive?” ,said my mentor standing right beside the door.
I like to have conversations with Charles every now and then, usually at 3 am in the morning. It is one of those times where he is talking to me. He’s the only one who calls me out on my sad bullshit.
“You don’t even know how to cry. You’ve only forced this tear droplet to convince yourself that you’re crying.”,he says, sipping on a bottle of beer and makes his way to the corner of my bed.
I sit up and light a cigarette. He takes the lighter from my hand and lights a smoke for himself too. We’re sitting in my cold dark room. “I bet your anxiety is kicking in right now.” He says and smirks, “you’re suffocating, like when someone jumps in a puddle of water and it becomes empty. It’s the same. You’re the same. You’re just as empty with spillage on the sides, kid. A temporary catastrophe of emotions.”, Charles takes a long drag of his cigarette.
“Sadness is a person sitting on my chest making it hard to breath.”, I say and grab the bottle of beer from his hand gently taking a sip. It’s nice to drink with Charles. He makes sense to me on so many levels when the world fails to.
“You get out of breath and then sedate yourself just to numb out the physical dynamics of the pain from your recent heart break. I hope that pill was enough to knock you out when you felt like reaching out to him.” He says and I nod in affirmation, “A pink pill is always helpful in controlling bouts of loneliness. It puts my heart in a cage when all it wants is to barge in through the door. I know that the doors are open and a single knock would lead me to back. Resistance is hard where the love is mutual, Charles.” I repeat to myself, “Resistance is futile.”
“But you’re lurking in a state of mind where you try to move on and your feet are running back. You still wonder kid, how can that be?” he laughs now and throws his cigarette bud on the floor, “A heart in the wrong place and a mind at the right. But, these two had declared war long ago before this person came into your life.”
“They have been at war since the past fourteen years, Charles.” I exclaim, “Don’t you remember the past wreckages of loving impulsively?”
“Ah! What lured you into the realms of heartbreak isn’t the longing for another soul. It is your addiction to the chase of wanting what you cannot have and putting in efforts to attain it. A blaspheme to the God above.” He says and I look at him wanting to refute his argument but unable to do so.
“It has reeled me back into the pit, again. I’m wondering if I can get out of this or not?” I ask him.
“Want to know a secret? You will survive this and make it out alive because you have made it out alive before. Remember, if you’re going to swim there will be times when the tide will be high enough to drown you. It takes even the best to perfect their swim against or with the currents to survive. I hope you learn to swim with the current or walk through the fire. Just keep going” He says and places his empty beer bottle on the table and before I could, he walked out the door.
Give yourself time and maybe you will be lucky enough to forget.
Time and human distress travel in parallel paths. Time does not heal. Human beings just get better at tolerating it. You get conditioned to the pain, making it a habitual part of your existence that puts an unstable mind into a more stable state. Human beings do not like an unstable state of mind. Time is relative to pain in the sense of making us more tolerable and later immune to what had hurt us before.
On some days, when the charcoal man in my throat makes it hard for me to say the words I want
And the iron rots my fingertips
It becomes hard to hold a pen
I sit there waiting
Because, darling I promised to write you a love poem
If not then a prose to my heart
But, I promised to write
Without erasing a single word that crosses my mind
What good are words?
If not an unapologetic reflection of ones life
I have read a lot of books
That tell me
How my body is a temple
I should consider it sacred
Worship and respect it
Because, if not me
I’ve read a lot of poetry
On intentions and aspirations
How positive energy heals my temple in rubble
I wish that I could tell them
I do not consider
This body of mine
My body is no shrine
No place for the holy
It is a forest
In between is a swamp
You will find only twisted pathways
Wetlands that will drown you
A bottomless pit
For an excuse of a heart
A shallow hole that only wants
It functions on parasitic needs
The canopies have poisonous snakes
Spiders hide in the ground
If you think this is
Young, wild and free
I am sorry
To deceive you with my words
It is a forest
That does not give birth to life
It is overshadowed by rage and cruelty
Left by inhabitants that once tried
To make a home of it
It is not free
The vines will trap you
Hang you in mid-air by your throat
If you dare venture in too deep
There is nothing saintly cherished in the atmosphere
So, if you think that this body is a temple
Go look somewhere else
Because, this is a forest
Thick and Cruel
It will devour your heart
Make you a fool
I’ve always been against the notion of “hard” love.
A love that does more harm than good to your soul is not the sort of love you should strive for. Like a lot of things being in love sounds very poetic but living “a life with the love that you want” is an entirely different concept.
There is a moment when you need to decide that there is no place for a love that makes life hard.
A moment where you need to recognize that toxicity is not a synonym for liberation.
Love is a poetic concept but it should not make you dwell in riddles for long.
And if you find yourself alone after midnight
Thinking about the day
Things you could have said
People you could have met
Past events or just people you miss
A stroll down the memory lane
Then, my dear
You’re a mess of a person just like myself
Who holds a galaxy on the palm of their hands
And writes conversations across the dark sky
Only to vanish when the sun comes up
Inside my ribcage there is a shipwreck
Inside my heart there is a thunderstorm
Inside my mind is a war going on
You’re safe on shore so you will never know how a shipwreck feels like
You’re under shelter so the rain and thunder cannot reach you
You reside in nirvana so conflict is just a word to you
Here, I am a mess of a world and you the calmness of the universe.
Its like I’m always running. Running from myself at times and mostly from others. I’ve been running for so long that I have forgotten the touch of others. Even my body feels foreign to me. I am numb inside and out. My soles are bruised and wounded, when I take a step away from others I feel nothing. I like feeling nothing.
I run and run in hopes of never encountering anyone.
Under the star filled sky and the shimmering moon or even the blazing sun in the vast desert, nothing stops me.
I don’t mind it now. I have split skin and torn lungs. My heart withered into a corner. I don’t bleed now from places where he jagged his claws. I don’t shed tears now in pain. I smile and run. I don’t give them the chance to tear me open and see my hollow insides bathed in memories. I even run from memories. I’m always running away and to be honest, I don’t mind it.
Its like I’m always running. Running from myself at times and mostly from others.