Star Dance

There is always a reasonable explanation as to why things happen and why they occur that way. That the universe works in a manner that preserves logic and supports it, such that its inhabitants have the chance to try and decipher it. That fairy tales and similar believes are thrown out of the window. That in the end we don’t know what to believe. That perhaps we are all pawns of a much higher deity that our feeble human minds cannot comprehend.

Or maybe, just maybe, I am losing my mind.

Maybe I spend too much time on my telescope staring at the cosmos.

I sigh as I fold the telescope back into its original position and put it into its casing. The cold metal feels so comforting in my hands. I sit on the roof for a while longer. I feel at ease when I’m up here staring at the stars than when I’m inside watching bad television shows. I look at the vast expanse of land that we own, not that we use most of it. My father and his father used to nurture an orchard here. My mother tells me fruit trees lined every acre. Now there is nothing left but dead trees and dry weeds.

I look up at the stars once more. At times I feel I don’t belong on this earth but up there with the stars. My toes twitch as I long to join them in their star dance. But I’m just a human, and we are not meant to fly.

At least there’s one thing out there that we can’t taint. I find comfort in that.

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A Pint of Love

There is something primal about my love for you, something raw. It’s almost terrifying and maddening, but boy do I love it!

Loving you is like drinking 30 years old scotch. It’s trying to decipher every single ingredient on my tongue. It’s how arid it leaves my throat. How can a liquid make one so dry? 

Loving you is like drinking 30 years old scotch. It’s the warm feeling it leaves in the pit of my belly. It’s the numbing of my senses and the much desired intoxication. It’s sinking my teeth into my bottom lip. It’s me wanting more.

Loving you is like drinking 30 years old scotch. I can’t seem to get enough, so never deprive me of your love.

Fall

Fall was cold, and it took away the joys of summer. Everything was dead and awaiting a rebirth. Birds forgot how to sing, and the clouds forgot how to cry and water the earth. 

Yet you made me see the beauty in it. You made me see life where there was none. You showed me how beautiful the golden brown of the leaves was, and how well it complimented your hair. The emerald of your eyes reminded me of the lush carpet of summer greens that were yet to come. I just had to be patient.

That is where this insanity began. I saw you in the simplest of things, in the most beautiful of faces and in the warmest places. I craved the delusion that you were still here. It kept me sane in my insanity.

I glimpsed you standing over me with a notebook in hand. They never allowed you to adorn jackets even as the season approached winter. Perhaps you were cold, but you never showed. Instead you fished for a pen in the pouch of your apron. You looked ridiculous in an apron and often I chuckled all to myself when I conjured an image of you, an image that was long gone.

A smile danced on your lips as you awaited my order. You compelled me to smile also, and that was how I knew you were my weakness. I made the same order daily, but you still found ways to stride to my table and ask for it. It made me think that you were making excuses to see me, to talk to me. That maybe you felt the same. But I had been wrong so many times before. What made you any different? 

I observed you in my peripheral as you wiped away at the tables. The Autumn breeze blew frail, dried leaves into the diner. Even then you never showed any signs of being cold. You were so good at hiding your emotions. Perhaps that was the reason why you never told me you loved me.

I stayed behind on purpose so that I would leave when you did. I did so many minute things just to spend a little time with you. You would tell me stories your family and how a sitcom should be hosted in their honour. You told me of your dreams. You were such a big dreamer. Was there a place for me amidst your dreams, I wondered.

I spotted you behind the wheel of your old Toyota. It was a family heirloom and you took such good care of it. Sure it was old and battered but that hardly mattered. You drove it still. You were proud of it.

Sunglasses hid your face as you searched for your sister among the mass of middle school graders. You probably thought those made you look cool. God, were you right.

Belong

“Take me away.” she said.

“Where to?” he asked.

“To a place beyond the stars. Heaven, maybe. I don’t know. Just not here.”

Because most times we feel we don’t belong. We seek solace in the beautiful things of this world: in the moon’s soft glow, in the wind’s whispers, in the trees’ slow dances, in the water’s soothing flow and even in the smell of the wet Earth.

We seek comfort in the scent of new and old books alike, and in the swish swoosh sound of turning a new page. We seek comfort in the smell of freshly brewed coffee on a cold winter morning. 

We seek comfort in the songs that not many people listen to. We cry too, maybe. We laugh. We sing along. We pretend to live in that particular moment. We are free. We are who we want to be.

But when night falls and all we can hear are the chirps of crickets, we question our existence. We question whether we belong anywhere at all. We question who we really are because we tire of the pretence. 

We just want to be free. But we don’t know how.

Death

I thought that death would come to me clothed in a black cloak, which draped beautifully over its shoulders, with a scythe firmly held in one hand. I thought that I would not be scared, because my time here on Earth was up, and it was taking me to the afterlife, if there was one. I thought that maybe Death was once a man, and thus he understood the pain of having to leave this world. Thus he empathised. Thus he cared.

But death didn’t come to me. Well, at least not that death. No. Not the Grim Reaper, but something far worse.

Death came to me through you. It came to me through your brown eyes that crinkled when you laughed. It came to me through your dimpled cheeks. It came to me through the spectacles you wore only in the secrecy of your bedroom because you were afraid of being termed a geek. It came to me through the old Rolex watch your late father gave to you when you went on that fishing trip when you were twelve, the one that was supposed to be gold but was now a faded hue.

Death came to me through your laughter. It came to me through your whispers in my ear and the bad jokes you only had the confidence to say to me. It came to me through the comics you forced me to read, only because you desperately needed someone to share that side with.

Death came to me through the old cassette tapes we listened to in your car, because you were an old soul in a lost generation. It came to me through the perfumed sweaters that you let me wear when I was cold. It came to me through the terrible coffee that you made and the burnt cookies we made when you helped me bake.

Death came to me when you said you loved me. For I loved you too, and at that moment we pretended it was fate. And we were happy.

Things Unsaid

Hmmm. It’s hypocritical, I know. Feeling the need to write this down instead of having to tell you how I really feel. Perhaps for a moment there I made you believe that you were a special part of my life. That we’d remain friends forever or whatever. But I thought I also made you understand that you couldn’t trust me.

My only wish is that you understand that I don’t do these things because I want to. I do these things because I was made this way. It is the way I am. It is the life I have chosen. It is the life I have been living. And I have tried so hard to change. I’ve had my moments of silence where I wanted to stay on my own and away from everyone that I could potentially hurt. But you wouldn’t allow me. You liked this version of me. You fed me poison.

But did you know? That once I cared too much for people who didn’t quite feel the same. That I was compliant and nice and obedient. That I was empathetic and religious and sometimes humble.

This life has hardened my interior. I can’t sympathise. I can’t empathise either. I can’t feel the same pain that you feel so gravely. The guilt is there, yes, but it has always been. That’s how I know I’m still human.

I wanted to tell you so many times that I wanted out. That you didn’t treat me right sometimes. That I loved my own space and wanted to be alone. That I enjoyed being loud and silly in public. That I wasn’t into this sophisticated get up that you and your friends had. That I was just me.

I miss the days when I would come from school to a good read. I miss those days when tears freely fell from my eyes and dug troughs through my cheeks. The days when I studied so hard because I remembered what I was here for. The days when a little piece of who I really am was evident in my actions.

I’m different now, I know. I can’t be trusted. I’m unreliable, yes, but never self-centred. I say a lot of things I don’t mean. I have made a lot of mistakes these past few months that have defined who I am in other people’s eyes. But I have learned to let go. I have learned that in this life people like me are placed here to teach people like you lessons. You can only rely on God.

You’ll never like my true self. Because she’s smart and obedient. She’s overly emotional. She likes to read, write and draw. She’s afraid to try out new things so she stays indoors all the time. In her mind she exists in a fantasy world where she can be whoever she wants. That she doesn’t have any real life problems because she’s afraid of reality. Afraid of people like you. 

What I have done, whether intentionally or unintentionally, has been in our best interest. I sound villainous, I know, but when have I ever sounded different. You’ll realise that you’re better off without me. That you don’t need me. And when you do, you’ll be at peace.

Monster Within

It was at daybreak when the err of my ways dawned upon me. Perhaps my careless judgement of others’ character weighed heavily on my shoulders. Or perhaps it was the realisation that the self-bettetment that I sought after was approaching a self-worsening of sorts, and weighed not on my shoulders but tugged at the strings of my heart.

Had I become that selfsame monster which I feared and abhored? The monster that I saw in others now stared at me from beyond the looking glass. It beckoned me.

“Come.” It said. “Let us go yonder, o’er the hills of sanity where monsters, such as we, roam freely.”

Had my Father condemned me to such a fate? I rebuked it! Trembling, I fell to my knees and prayed.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

And the Lord smiled upon me.

The monster was no more. The burden which once consumed me dwindled and I was free.

My Father had freed me.

Selah.

Freedom

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Would I fly if I stretched my arms out wide enough and jumped from the top of the highest building? Would the wind hold me in a sweet embrace and carry me? 

It must’ve been beautiful, the feeling of being free. Soaring in the skies as a bird would. Not being confined by the laws of society. Not being confined by your self doubt and second guessing.

It must have been beautiful. I could only imagine.

Through The Eyes of A Child

Life is never about our regrets. What are regrets compared to the many moments of happiness we could have? What are they compared to dancing in the rain as our laughter resonates through the rain drops? What are regrets compared to staring at the star studded sky with teary eyes?

How do you frown when the moon looks down upon you with a smile? How do you lament when the wind tries to coax you into a slow dance?

Do you not see? Can’t you see that we bring sorrow upon ourselves? Does a child know regret? Does a babe know hatred, sorrow or fear?

Can we not become like children we once were? Bathed in innocence and captivated by the slightest of things? I refuse to hate. I refuse to regret. I refuse to be sad.

I’ll be like a child.

Happy.