Variegated Instances II
I am crying again, while sleeping, dreaming about an arid shore littered with cyan and green broken glass bottles. The waves zealously rush and smash their heads against the jagged glass and invisible blood fall everywhere, on the foam of the sea, on the rocks, on the sands and trickle on the sharp edges of cyan-green broken glass.
Each one of them once had a message, safely etched on papyrus and stored in their bellies. A mystic secret message, never delivered, never read, never understood, never felt.
The moon hung low lamenting the fate of these cursed unspoken unwritten words, sentences, paragraphs, that could fill someone’s live, that had enough potential to ensnare anyone, anyone but you.
The stars had made way to utter darkness. And the yellow moon is being fed to it as well.
I tread on. With throbbing pain pulsating just beneath my skin, too vivid but ignorable salt fills my mouth, my eyes, my senses, my everything. I break down. I transform in a bright aqua color bottle.
I delve deep in the sadness to write and then it lingers on, in bits, crawls over my skin, fills my vistas and captures my dreams. And I would be captivated just like that, trying to escape, trapped somewhere in the lowness of life, trying hard to break free. Sadness leaves trails and traces on me, of Goosebumps, like a charcoal line scratched by a little child on saline grim walls, like a moth’s flight, a snake’s path on the sand, a jets smoke that loiters long after it is gone…
The winds keep howling in leaves and trees and I keep wondering. About the fact that the only company I seek of is myself. That I complete the Me in the I. but still I desperately need to smile. Why is it that my ‘want’ to smile is banished? As if dementors really exist. As if the really suck happiness out of you. As if they have sucked all mine.
I am lurking back and forth, wobbling like a jelly, baking away the half-baked pieces, drowning in my coke of like. Time rolls over centuries, years, months, and I don’t know if it was eons ago when we were kids. In my attempts of self denial, especially everything that has something of a past, to get rid of the pain that it brings forth, I’ve somehow destroyed the most vivid and joyous ones in my brain.
Lately, I’ve been listening to our childhood trapped in magnetic tapes, our trivial attempts at recording. And I have been thoroughly emotional, it was poignant. I think the one thing we’re depriving our kids of, is childhood. Anyways, I hope spring continues. I hope it rain.
The set back comes with all the glory. The air is filled with the strange feeling of eeriness. You hear you stomach churning and grinding the bits of what-so-ever you have just swallowed. The unfathomable barriers to your dreams, the extra creased skin at the ends of your lips, A perfectly juvenile heart, A not-so-juvenile self, the utmost messy room and eternal waits.
Sometimes life becomes the weird jukebox of blocks and squares and circles of myriad of shapes and sizes and colors, which range from red to blue and yellow to green and to blue and to blue.
I hope to all my rebellious moves, and to my waywardness, Allah grants me mercy and refuge. Amen.
PS. I dedicate this to Mav. for pushing me enough to write this one 🙂