the other side of grief

If I could turn back time only once, i wouldn't have went back to any other moment but that one, when i thought it wouldn't matter if i pushed harder, when there was a momentary lapse when i wasn't thinking. just one stroke of that little syringe. i would have turned back to that moment and stopped. and remembered that i was human. and that you were alive.

I'm so sorry, Chihiro. you trusted me to care for you and I betrayed it. I betrayed our friendship. i caused you to suffer. i forgot that we were friends, and that you were a living being. i took it for granted. i became inhumane.

I will always miss our moments - when you were better and i was relieved, and you followed me just to sit on my foot as i worked. When i called you and you came to me, although you were only tiny and learning. When you kept looking out for me, even when you were sick, thats all you wanted. when you slept on my lap, when you placed your head on my arm. I loved you truly. I'm sorry for what i did, for that moment of impatience and frustration at you. i didn't mean it. i didn't mean it. i was anxious for you to get better and ended up killing you. i'm sorry.

the way in which i have been designed to grow
is layer by layer
solidifying, before the next layer is added, expanding
like trees, growing hard, tall, strong, infallible,
till a hundred years old.
continually growing inwards as such,
who can see it?
the solid strength of the deep insides of the trunk cannot be seen
the curious mysteries of the depth of the water
to the passer by,
it is just another tree,
just another calm surface of a nothing lake.

but cut me and see that i do not bleed the same
place me in the path of a deadly storm
shaken at first by the force of that darkness,
i will eventually look down at my feet, the roots
and realize that it is impossible to break

how many people can say that

*

the glittery shadows reflecting from the water
only threaten to make me invisible
they would take me and make me into something dependent
something dependable. like i could only be a reed, or a pillar for their support.
they would take my voice and make it their own.
until they themselves would forget that it was my gold nuggets,
carefully guarded, in the first place
they would make me feel invisible for my lack of splendour - my lack of showmanship.
if something is not seen to exist, does it exist?

but i will carefully distill my opinions - my voice
where others echo, loudly, borrowed thoughts and ideas, borrowed catchphrases, endeavours, egg shell words.

*

bled dry,
i , finally, identify the thieves of my life for what they are.
having almost let them get away with my life many times, for many years,
finally i catch them for what they are
i unmask them
and identify their true selves
as my own reflection in the mirror
i will no longer let them steal from me,
my time, my thoughts, space in my life.
my spirit and sanity no longer dependent on these elements in my surroundings

like a solid tree,
drawing from a life source deep within itself
sufficient into itself
sufficient unto others

existing
even if nothing else recognises it
in-dependent
true

free.

*

i cannot believe that just a while ago i would have given this existence away
but for the realisation of this self sustaining life force that feeds and rejuvenates into its own

i cannot believe i would've just given life away
safe for this one step across the threshold
this one defining layer around my girth

and if i had given up before,
i would never have gotten here, into this harness of birth - of true life.

its surreal, how at times it feels like you don't really exist.

you remember shadows of the past, what must have been reality at that time - things you touch, you breathe, you feel, as tangibly as the grainy details of the concrete you stare at when you are thinking of what to say in a deeply emotional, intense conversation with someone who mattered at the time. flashes of anger, of the world passing by as you sat with your face to the car window. thoughts you had as you showered, cold droplets falling on your face, as you started at the square white tiles, thinking about decisions in loops in your mind - even then - what could be, what would be, what could've been, what could've been. moments suspended in time, when the world went in slow motion, and you stared at the ground three storeys down, and wondered. the sight of your feet shifting, one in front of the other, as the big black cloud hung weighty on your shoulders; again as you climbed a mountain, feeling alright; again as you felt the dirt and pebbles shift under your feet on another mountain, feeling alone. moments when the world seemed to rush all around you, and your senses didn't work - when you couldn't see straight, couldn't hear, couldn't perceive - you only felt the rage of a dark devouring tornado that came from within, all around you. moments when out of nowhere, sitting at the backseat of a car and looking in front, suddenly the past, and future, and present all seemed to exist at the same time - when things are both the way they are and the opposite; when your parents are no longer around and still around; when you are both happy and sad - when all is as it is, all is as it ever is. everything is everything.
the moments bleed into one another. every moment becomes the same moment.

when everyone has passed by, and no one remembers your name anymore... do we still exist? there is no dent of my existence on society; none on the people i once called 'friends', or ex-lovers, none on the burned bridges of the ones called my family. like a ghost, passing through time.

The moment they came and put their hands all over it, filled up all the space with the things they had bought to equip it, it no longer felt like mine. None of the things felt like it belonged to my space - i was so happy with it, so proud of what little i'd put together, so happy to be there.. when they had come and left with their storm of goodwill, i was no longer happy with it. it no longer felt like mine. i watched the spaces and the things that filled them warily, like it had been inhabited by a stranger without my knowledge. whatever i had found and equipped together for myself came to be zero - nothing i had achieved, nothing i had built and owned, as in the name of love, those i was bound to  watermarked everything, owned everything, everything in my life.

sneakily
The cold tight grasp of loneliness creeps so deep inside that

it goes beyond the reach of friends, beyond the reach of talk, or drinks and cigarettes, beyond work or light and love, beyond laughter; beyond looking for attention or worrying if people care. 

already dead and buried within, wrapped in a shroud, nailed shut. 

And then at 10.40 in the morning, when all the drinks were drunk and all the pills were spun, i found myself plotting my own death.

What are the things that are required?

A clean slate - so those responsible for you do not have to deal with a lot of rubbish, so that your secrets written down in darker moments remain unreachable. You would need to clean up. Clear debts. Throw out what needs to be thrown. Give away what needs to be given away. Assign what should be assigned. So that when they need to sort out your non-existence, it is smooth, seamless. Do not burden them more than you need to.

You need to have spoken. So it will not do to leave permanently, silent or unknown in your thoughts. I would need to write it down - write my thoughts, write everything i have arrived to for all my 28 years of living, write my inner intentions for the people around me. Then write a word of comfort, and of love that i feel of them, so they know; so the final word is spoken.

And write a message to the world - in general. because it is the world in general that has screwed you over. in its innate undertones of evil, of nonsense, of shiny pieces that do not fit, can never fit.

The world is a lonely place for those who seek. Its a lonely place for the pure at heart. Its a lonely place for the lowly.

i worry about coming to the place where drinks aren't enough, smoke ain't enough, music or people aren't enough...even meaningful service isn't enough, when travelling and being in a foreign land isn't enough. when there's nothing, when everything meets with a dull thud inside. then its stark, then you take the only logical next step.

Like the back of her own hand, they say

But in passing she caught glance of a back of a hand she did not know
with unknown lines and contours,
she stared as if it were the back of hands of a stranger
and in that moment she knew which part of her body would age unrecognisably first.