“Looking around, do you see ruins? That was to be expected. He who lives in the world of words does not get along with things.”
The strangest things are happening.
I sit down to write and it feels like I’m doing this for the first time. I’m not too perturbed; this has happened before.
I try to occupy little space because I know what it does to others when I want too much. I try to be me and then I try to be another me from another time and place. The back and forth, the trial and error, the near impunity of knowing I can choose and yet that I’m bound in ways I’ll never be able to unravel completely – it’s all so strange, you know.
I think I admitted to myself a while back – and it was the most difficult thing in the world – that my unhappiness is not cause of my circumstances, it’s not what others do to me, it’s not about what I don’t have and what I continue to pine for, it is in fact something that I can’t escape from. I’m unhappy with me.
So no matter where I go, no matter the continents I cross, the places I go to seek knowledge or the ones I choose to give my love – I will take this box of unhappiness with me. It fell the other day and it cracked and spilled my unhappiness everywhere. I could not make sense of it. I was there and my unhappiness took a form, it hovered all around me, it settled before me and made me see that what I said had nothing to do with anyone but me.
It’s strange you know, realizing that you have to keep something like that inside you at all times. That it can suddenly surface and throw off all your carefully crafted plans. That you are inherently sad and it can’t ever be changed.
I walk by myself in the cold every day. I feel the chill settle onto the corners of my mouth and the tip of my nose. Sometimes the wind blows my hair to curl around my neck, the stranglehold of it is never subdued by how ticklish it feels. I’m still more afraid than sensitive to it. I often look at my feet and I see the arches my lover adores very much. How is it that I never looked at them the same way?
The point is that happiness is – as people and books might have already told you – a matter of choice and that we all walk around with in-built sadness. The fear of it showing up unannounced at 3AM is what unnerves me. I know all too well that to be happy I have always paid a price. I keep the invoices tucked away in a dark drawer in the recesses of my brain, and it’s strange how sometimes they all decide to come along and collect their dues at the exact same time.
“The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet…”
I have been having continuous, overwhelming thoughts about many plans that haven’t worked out lately. Yes, it feels like this year has already laid down the foundation. It’s telling me in bold flash cards: Sorry you, this is not going to be your year, now go stand there in the corner and whine because that’s what you get for unbounded expectations.
This Thursday afternoon, I realized the only person who is ever there at your pity party is yourself. You are the only you who can be you. So when you stop taking the blame for everything, start thinking that everything essentially goes wrong because of the pathetic dimwits that have been placed in your life in abundance, you begin to cover up your own flaws with a thinly coated sheet of paint. When a person tells you something you’ve done, you feel accused. When someone brings up your name in a sentence, you feel mocked. Every time you try to be precocious, you have someone just so intellectually inadequate to understand what it is you’re trying to prove.
A thought entangled deep inside me like a thread of candy floss stuck in a molar; finally came free: Maybe, just maybe the flaw is in you. Ever considered that?
“…The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I’m sinning while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions…”
I am a talkative person when I want to be. I narrate day-to-day stories the way a poet would describe the dusty, old attic in an abandoned house. My narratives, I daresay are exquisitely detailed. This, I have come to realize can be very painful for some ears. Of course, I could ridicule these humans for their lack of sheer fondness regarding the important things that I just have to talk about. But lately, I have been wondering if I should just give up and pretend that probably no one but me could care much about what I am saying. Also, for what it’s worth, life is (somewhat) easier now.
Someone can feel vibrant as a rainbow when they’re with you. They will do everything they can to make you feel that way about yourself. But you don’t. And it’s just there. Like an elephant in the room. The two wildly different interpretations about a single human being. Make that two elephants and a rather tiny room.
“…I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean’s waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea…”
Once you know how a person interprets your existence, you can manoeuvre the person as and how you wish. I don’t understand how everyone is so oblivious to this. No one does anything about this unseen, grim brutality. Except certain loud people, who yell and scream and make themselves heard, only to be labelled.
I daydream. I create situations in my head consciously and drift away into them, subconsciously. I found myself in a corridor of unending doors. It’s unnerving how every door held a different possibility. You were behind one of them. It is pretty people like you who always get to be on the receiving end. Unsettling people like me have to make all the difficult choices and wield my way through balustrades of difficult emotions to get to you. So I stand in the corridor of what seems like the awry part of a horror movie where fear finally starts to jolt you.
I try every door and time is running out. And I don’t know what it even means to go through this ordeal anymore. But get to you I must, is what I tell myself. Somewhere in that infinitesimal moment when I step through a door and unsurprisingly don’t find you there, somewhere between that panic and remorse and self-induced disappointment, I feel a certain reassurance. Okay really, what can be reassuring about not finding what you’re looking for, I ridicule myself every time.
“…You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron is from hell, yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig.”
It is the last door. You have got to be here. I step in hastily and step through. The walls collapse. My sighs linger, like smoke in the air. Unwanted yet somehow resilient. It was in finding you that I realized I needed to find me. The reassurance I sensed in stepping through every door was that I will always have one person, the only one I will ever need to walk me through all doors of life. And that is unsurprisingly, me.
The way the curtain blows with the wind tonight. All those rusty sounds it makes. I won’t tell you how much it makes my insides ache. I won’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this or if I’ve waited at all. And when the time comes to broach the elephant in the room, I’ll pretend that it was all a matter of nothing new. No thing that isn’t new.
When the smell of an old book overwhelms me I won’t tell you how I think about a fireplace with honeysuckle wood. There are shadows everywhere. The lamp in my room makes disturbing images on the walls, I won’t tell you how it petrifies me. Because let’s be real, it doesn’t. I’m too proud for that and anyway you’re not here. You’re my best friend and you’re not here. Just so you know, that isn’t right.
I don’t know why it’s so easy to fall in love but so difficult to just be friends. Is it so complicated to pursue someone with the sole objective of winning them over, for a considerable amount of time, only to offer no romance or sex in return? But tell me you wouldn’t want that. I dare you.
So while we all pretend to be really afraid of getting into so-called compromising friendships, we can go about doing every reckless thing in the world to get someone to romantically adore us. Also, enlighten me as to how many people must you successfully move on with and what exactly are you trying to validate anyway. The debauchery of getting more and more people to like you, is the conquest of getting no one to actually like the real you.
So I think these thoughts.
I spot my favourite colour. My watch stops working. I have a headache. I witness my birthday end. What I mean is, I think these thoughts all the time, it’s not healthy but that’s nothing new.