Centuries ago, during the course of evolution, humans brought the whole species together, on the base of One belief system; Religion. We thrived. They say nothing lasts forever; humans have this obsession with change, To know more, To be more.
And now ( fast forward to ‘I’ ) As ‘act of God’ I see my country moulding beliefs of generations. God has now become a tool To control masses; we are given a Reason to be scared of the sacred. I see them locked in fancy buildings like you and me, having ‘no right to speech’, worse, they can’t even speak because no one is actually asking them.
/I used to think/ I’m an atheist/ but lately/ I have started to believe otherwise/ like y’all/ I too have a holy book/
My God is as panicky and breathless as yours. I watch TV till my heart starts aching, I clutch the Constitution close to my flesh, with hopes of lending some air to it; I hear him suffocating. Then I sleep to the weeping sound of my God (Constitution); who cries with all the other Gods because Gods are dying in my country.
In his Letters to Milena, Kafka wrote, ‘You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.’
And I can’t help but wonder number of times I ate my own skin to feel your touch on my lips. And number of times I died, trying to reason with unknown. In search of words I travel through my spine; your garden in my lungs is dead. Butterflies have turned into fireflies, illuminating me while burning my senses, I am alive you see.
There is a reason why I hate September, we all have reasons, to reason with unknown is a silent revolution, a war with possessiveness. Like a failed theory my eyes look for you in patterns, for hints, so that I can reason with my tied hands; there are songs of lost touch in my heart.
All I am left with are questions. I can’t come up with an explanation for my fear of something that already passed. Like the evening sky there are too many colours, too many shades of verses leaving my finger tips; I paint my nails red when I miss you the most.
My skin sweat in how, why and where? You ask me why no happy poems? These, my dear, are barely poems.
Not writing this week? Want to know what piques my anxiety? Ask me a question. It’s not people that I’m scared of but myself. My words aren’t forced, they come to me, like rain, forming clouds slowly pouring out of my body. My fingers forge the sky and I embody the universe.
But I suppose universe has its boundaries. It too needs to slow down sometimes and close its eyes when things go out of control. What if control is an illusion? Why is too much always considered to be hazardous? Isn’t the sky too expansive for the eyes? Why aren’t we ever tired of looking at it? Why does a heavy downpour scare you? I know. It’s because we dream of the skies and envy the rain. We want to fall free, effortlessly. We want to be loved regardless of how ugly or scary the fall is.
So is the case with writing and us. You want to write, set the words free, to feel, no matter how much we try and deny. People expect. Expectations are inevitable and sometimes expectations are heavy. No one is telling you but you know, you can feel. So you start running backwards, you don’t count steps. It’s a good thing; it leads you to a good place.
Too much emptiness. Too much silence. Too much solace.
Holding on doesn’t always have to be about people or the stained memories, it’s more complex than what we know. I often leave my poems and pause midway to reminisce the fleeting moments, to find you there once again, which apparently has become my favourite thing to do. I always try to find my face there, try to see the dipping-toes-in-the-moment-me. I am constantly reminded of what I was because of what I am and I fail at being myself trying to hold on to what I was. I write a poem every other day but there is no one to read them; It hardly makes sense to hold on to past self, I know but you gotta hold on to something right? why can’t that something be you?
This constant pressure someone feeling that they are entitled to talk to you daily can be draining ( and can break the bonds too). When going through things, the most creative people can also run out of words and the answer to every question can be nothing more than “okay”.
We keep checking on people , which is a good thing, indeed. But too much care can be toxic too. If everybody starts with “How are you today?” then what else can someone say other than ” I’m fine”.
On some days the best thing we can do for others is to just listen or just be there in silence or just give them the space. Because sometimes, the best thing we can do for others is not to do anything.