An Awkward Collection Of Poems About Death #3

 

The thing about loss
Is that it didn’t hit me
When it happened.
I didn’t feel loss.
Not when I got the call.
Not when I attended our last party together
Everyone wearing black.
Her favourite colour.
Not when there were two bodies
and only one person
that last time I saw her.
Pale.
No, I didn’t feel loss.
I felt everyone else’s loss
And made it my own.
A vacancy inside me
Filled with pain
not of my own doing.
And that made it worse.

It was three days later
I was checking my phone
And I didn’t see her name
Pop up at the crank of dawn.
She wasn’t on my recents
Only recently passed.
The vacancy started to fill up
With the deafening sound of absence.

A week later I was at a book store
I found a book with chapters named
Only in odd numbers.
She was an odd little one.
She would have liked it.
I almost bought the book for her.

Thirty one days later
That movie she wanted to see
Came out.
I went alone.

It’s just one never-ending monotone.
Sometimes you forget she’s gone.
She’s still there, you know.
Writing, eating, breathing.
Am I lying to myself or is time lying to me?
And my ears pick up the monotone again.
A frustration.
Of so much to say
But when you turn the recorder on
You realise you have nothing to record.
Succumb to the monotone.

A year and a half later
I shift to a new city
Unloading the pieces of my life.
I find a stone.
Our hike up the mountain.
When she told me
She’d move mountains for me.
And suddenly I feel selfish.
Because I had not thought of her
For a year.

The vacancy never really gets filled.
The pain just numbs until
You trick yourself into believing
You are as you were.
Whole.
Without loss.
With nothing to find.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking.

Snapshots

Sometimes in my dreams
I see myself
Differently
Maybe I see myself as a
Future version.
The person I want to become
Maybe not the person I do become.

I saw myself last night.
Long, thick, silky black hair
Tumbling down
Covering my bosom
I’m wearing white
And there’s sharp bright light
On my face
It’s like a snapshot
A Photo Booth
I look happy
Confident
Older, more mature
So much more mature.
And more wise.
My face has shrunk into the holes
Of ageing, my skin taut
My eyes sharp as ever.
My soul ever sharper.
I liked looking at myself like that.

I didn’t look complete.
But I looked wholesome.

Autumn Sweater

I see her in the distance
It’s been too long
She isn’t the way I remember her
Maybe I imagined her wrong.

She’s more radiant, authentic, real
And I can see her flaws
But that’s what makes her the
Girl I once loved.

I hesitate, should I move towards her?
Should I utter a meaningless greeting?
After all these battles and wounds
Will she be hostile; bleeding?

Should I be too? After all she
Broke me, bled me till I was black and white
Till colour wasn’t in my dictionary
Yes, I will keep my stand and fight.

She broke my heart,
I’ll break her apart.

But her eyes catch hold of me
Like dreams in a dream catcher
Like a forest fire beautifully ablaze
Like the spectrum of her laughter

I remember as her eyes search mine
The childish crinkles and giggles
She’s more beautiful than in my dreams
Memories, traditions and kisses.

I was wrong.
I replaced my heart with my liver
My dreams with revenge
And my nightmares with her.

I move towards her and see
Her eyes, bubbling with fear
Did I really scar her so badly
She can’t have me near?

Pools of unbridled emotion emerge
And I take a step towards her
She doesn’t move away
My senses blur.

I’ve never seen her so afraid
She was my queen and I was her king
But the girl in front of me
Is a deer in headlights, carefully listening.

I move closer. Her hand
On my face is my medi-sin
Her scent, her eyes, her neck
She is my skin.

She is my home.
I was running away
Elixirs and potions to drown my fear
All I needed was her to stay.

I’ll stop running away now.
I need her, now and forever.
She is my home.
She is my autumn sweater.

Ethereal

With his hands cold
On my shoulders and hips
With his voice in my mouth
He takes a sip
Of me and he moans
I’m not just a pretty face
No that can be erased
He tells me I’m subjective
Existing only in poetic imagination
Concealed as an ideal
Of volatile origin.
And that’s why he cannot believe I’m real.
Only ethereal.
So he holds me close and devours me whole.

Oblivion

I’ve lost my anchor.

And I’m free to float. Yet I’m not happy. But I’m not depressed either. I’m stuck in a limbo somewhere in between. I feel what can best be described as nothingness, but with the occasional but powerful bout of nausea. Like I’m drowning.

I’m drowning in this world that I can no longer make sense of. I’m drowning till the edge of recognition. I’m drowning, yet I’m making no effort to surface.

It begins with shafts of sunlight seeping through the water so I can see the intensity but I can’t feel it. This disjoined sensory intake confuses me. I can see my life that I left behind, yet I can’t feel it. The memories are there, but the emotion is lost. But what good are glimpses of a past life without despair or desire to put it into perspective?

As the wings of the water envelope me, the sunlight fades into a gentle glow. And my memories become blurry. I chide myself for not appreciating the memories I that could see. The feelings may not be there, but there was a safety in seeing familiar faces. As the glow dims, I feel agitated. I can’t remember the faces in the memories. I’d forgotten the names long ago. And as I sink, I forget why I was agitated. So I let the water engulf me to fill the empty places in my soul.

The water tangles my hair into knots, but vanity was the first thing to leave me. I wonder if my sanity will soon follow. I wonder if my humanity will too.

The steady current syncs with my heart beat while the stream of water dissolves the layers of myself that I’ve built up over the years. One by one, every element of my life is stripped away until I’m naked and my soul is bare.

Now I am pure. I am unadulterated. I have no memories, no emotions, no preconceived ideas and no bias. I cannot remember anything that was externally put into my head. I have no ideas of beauty, happiness, success, god, life or death. I am my unsullied self and only myself, not a product of society.

I still have my consciousness and my body. The darkness around me grows thicker and the last remaining hints of light on the surface look like stars on a cloudy night.

But I can feel my body slipping away too. My limbs aren’t responding to my consciousness. The cold is slowly replaced by a numbness and the suffocation comes so transiently that I almost don’t notice. My eyelids start to close like flowers when the sun goes down. I’m almost at the bottom. I’m almost done.

Then I suddenly I remember everything. It all comes back to me faster than lightning. My family, my friends, my aspirations, my dreams. My life flashes before my heavy eyes and I suddenly get the strength to lift my limbs. I trash and turn and move and slither, screaming till my lungs feel like they will burst. I cannot let this go. I was so stupid to think that this was the best option. The sorrow and hurt I will leave in my wake is not worth my selfish insecurities. The sound of silence is not worth it if it is permanent.

I will not go down with this ship.

Then I hit the bottom and I’m lost in the oblivion.

Part #1- Who Travels

“Three experiences, three stories, one emotion”

 

1. Date A Boy Who Travels.

Those who wander are not always lost. Date a boy who travels because he can teach you to wander.

Date a boy who travels because his magnetic wild energy will draw you towards him. He will seem foreign at first, but you will slowly warm up to him. He will excite your bubble-protected sensitivities.

His enthusiasm towards life will inspire you. And when he turns his untamed tempestuous gaze towards you, losing yourself in his radiant power will be the easiest thing you have ever done.

He will ask you to go to dinner with him to dine on a cuisine you would have never tried yourself. You will slowly but steadily fall in love with his tanned, worn-out face that contrasts perfectly with his ever youthful eyes. And when he smiles, his face will wrinkle up in a way that makes you want to do strange things. Like accompany him on his wayward but fulfilling journeys.

He will teach you how to live. You will spend hours navigating the earth that your ancestors walked on, experiencing more in your two-week journey with him than in your whole adult life. He will make you feel alive.

He will be the type of person to choose a small, handmade bracelet to an expensive watch, so gifts will never be a problem as long as they have a significance. Your wedding ring will not be diamonds, but a pearl that he found when he was wandering. And it will be worth a thousand shiny carbon pieces.

He will tell you that he was lost before he found you, and you will know that this is the ultimate compliment he can give a human being.

He will have travelled to so many places that he will have a deeper understanding of the human species, an insight he will never fail to use on you. He will understand that poverty is everywhere and so is human suffering. He will not shelter or protect you from the crimes of life, rather, he will teach you how to deal with suffering.

He will push you to your limits, and you will discover yourself in him. Don’t expect him to give you a lavish life, but he will give you a meaningful life. He will know how to ration money because he just wants to survive, without money, but definitely with you.

He will know you are his soul-mate when you overcome your fear of heights, and you agree to swing across the river holding on only to his toned body and his love as your safety. You will fall in love with him and his way of life, and never look back.

He will teach you to use your body to the full potential of human capacity. You will rediscover the simple happiness in life, and you will learn to see beyond individuality. You and him are part of a bigger plan.

He will teach you to be kind and gentle to all living creatures, yet teach you the importance of death.

He will teach you to love. And your children the will learn the same.

He will teach them that happiness comes from not what is around you, but what you can make from the things around you. And he will love you till the sun rises in the west.

 

Wandering, but Not Lusting

“Wanderlust.”

She drooled over the word,
With shiny, wide eyes,
She repeated it like it was her highway to an escape.
She dreamed of paradise.

In the middle of conversations,
She would tell us where she would go.
Because all the things around us,
Were mundane, boring and old.

She said there was no excitement,
No colour in her life.
And with her new-found vocabulary,
She would set the colour balance right.

She would visit the Amazon,
And prove she was one too.
She would stop by Paris,
And sip coffee under the sky blue.

So as soon as we graduated,
Free to choose our own dreams.
She packed her suitcase and
Was never again to be seen.

I imagine she would have chanted,
‘Wanderlust’ in prayer.
As she boarded the
Automobile that would take her.

To the place she always wanted to go,
I wonder if she ever found it.
This traveller’s biggest flaw was
She couldn’t bare the sound of silence.

Me? I live a normal life,
But I do find paradise.
The beauty is in the smallest of things,
A look or two would suffice.

For the idealist that trotted the globe,
Only found Elysium.

War

“I feel like I’m waging an internal battle.”

You’ve heard this line uttered by countless teenagers and 20-something’s and this is the point where you make up your mind about this being just another cliche melodramatic rant. You would probably stop reading here.

Let’s try to think out of the box here, just for a second. Every battle is not the same. And mine doesn’t have two sides; it has many.

There is no good or bad, wrong or right side to my battle because a) there are more than two sides and b) if I knew which side was right, don’t you think I would have resolved this war?

So coming back to the point, I’m battling the different parts of myself:

The part of me that believes that our education system retards creativity versus the part of me that wants to get into a good college.

The part of me that doesn’t care what other people think of me versus the part of me that got upset when a boy called me a hypocritical airhead.

The part of me that yearns for human interaction versus the part of me that dislikes most of the people I meet.

The part of me that feels horrible when I say something against a person versus the part of me believes that differing opinions need to be expressed to bring about change.

The part of me that wants to stand out, but only in the ways which are socially acceptable.

The part of me that wants to have all the freedoms of being an adult versus that part that desperately clings to the shreds of childhood I have left.

The part of me that refuses to fall for the stereotypes the media subconsciously urges us to believe versus the part of me that tries to conform to ‘pretty’ almost every time I go out.

The part of me that knows I need to exercise more often because my health is deteriorating rapidly versus that part of me that just doesn’t exercise, because, exercise.

The part of me that rebels against high school drama versus the part of me that feels insufficient if I’m not involved in a high school drama.

The part of me that believes I’m special versus the part of me that thinks I’m just another human walking on a planet millions of human have walked on before.

I’m a walking, talking hypocrite inside. But isn’t everybody?