Dreaming Boy

I will not write in green.

There are no adventures for me.

No films with watery sunlight.

No sea-worn glass on a pebbly beach.

No pirates to sing my praise,

no evil lairs that I set ablaze.

 

But no matter.

There are worse tragedies at play (they say):

The birth of a man.

 

‘The boy is gone’,

they cry,

eyes warm and too bright.

And it echoes into the tearful night:

the boy is gone.

 

–but the girl was never even born,

and her story lies blank.

No grand tales in golden lettering,

purple leaves or dark blue dreams.

No crown to place atop her head

or cape of torn, worn sheets.

 

what is a boy, but a young, bright thing

scrambling to love what it can.

what is a girl but a dangling string,

once taut, now barely seen.

 

Broomstick cowboy, won’t you stay?

Bless this land with songs of play.

Dreaming girl, won’t you wake?

Don’t you see the things at stake.

 

Yours Truly,

Simran

Stardust Schmardust

In which I am a sloth, but all you see is the flower.

They whisper:

‘you have stardust in your veins.’

And fling you into the night.

(justification for offering you to the dark,

to be forgotten once out of sight)

 

A “dying star” they tag you,

running their hands along your wrist;

except that is only half true,

but that doesn’t matter once you’re shrouded in mist–

-coloured pink and pale blue,

cherry blossoms like some Japanese cartoon.

You are not you.

 

But a story, poem, heartbreak

to be immortalized in paper and glue;

tragic and tortured

–because how else would they love you?

 

Yours Truly,

? (I need another sign-off, that image wasn’t even mine, I just found it on the interwebz)

 

PS. Oh would you look at that. Actual, regular posts?! Hah, no. The last 3 were things I had written before but forgotten to put on here but then decided I shouldn’t deprive you of those because they are so great just the best top marks top notch the absolute best is what they are. 

PPS: how’s this for a sign off:

200

In which I despise you, but sometimes I don’t.

You are the ocean.

—in all the ways one shouldn’t be:
Cold and scorching,
Demanding and destructive.
Unwanted.
Chasing the air out of their very lungs,
Them out of their very homes.
A suffocating wall of scales and teeth
shrouded in blue and grey.

But still they look at you and see gentle waves.
Glittering sand and ice cream cones.

 

Yours Truly,

sign-off

 

you make me laugh but it’s not funny

With the dawn of winter, a series of births took place amidst the population on Earth. They gave rise to peculiar little children–the first on earth to not be perfectly Happy. Or Sad. Or Angry. These kids discovered desperation.

Those who gave birth to them–The Happy–did not understand. What was this–this grey fog their children writhed in silently, mechanically? What was this watered down imitation sunshine that bathed their houses and plants and roads? The Happy did not understand.

The Sad–who came before the birth of The Happy–were similarly flummoxed. What were hesitant smiles that did not perfectly contrast their misery? What was this tentative hope, hesitant optimism?

The ancestors of The Sad–The Angry–understood the newest people in a way the other two generations didn’t. Of course, their great grandchildren were still freaks as far as they were concerned, but they could see the method to their madness. They understood desperation, even if they were unfamiliar with the intermittent moments of apathy that followed.

The Happy, The Sad and The Angry all loved the newest people unconditionally. The Happy delighted in the way their fingers dipped in the colours and drew swirls of beautiful, bright madness in the air. The Sad wept with them when they sobbed the tears of the discontent and wailed as they cried the woes of the distressed. The Angry ranted with them against the injustice of the skies and the flesh, and the betrayals of the heart and the mind.

And to all this, I stood a spectator.

The newest people took off sometimes. You can stay in the same place and still find ways to leave people, it’s fairly simple. They took off in the still night, picking locks with pieces of hearts ripped empty and sharpened to a point; crystallised preservations you could hear over the dripping of the faucet if you listened hard enough.

They’d breathe in the night air and look at the stars and grasp comfort from lights long dead and so far. The Sad once told them that stars are just stars. Not dead lovers illuminating the dark.

The stars are just stars, but some flowers used to be people, The Angry would hurriedly placate. For instance, windflowers sprang forth when Adonis’ blood fell to the earth. The hyacinth used to be Hyacinthus, a victim of jealous rage, the narcissus, the lily, the lotus.

The kids laughed and wept and joked and threatened to choke on the air they inhaled. Some of them fell in love and forgot to be sad, others fell in love and forgot what it was to be happy, still others did neither and stared at the scenery. And this has been their story.

The End

Yours Truly,

sign-off

 

Or Burn This Out

 

large

I’m not lazy. I’m not.

But how do you explain to someone you can’t manage normal life when you can barely even dredge up the motivation to breathe, or eat; or not be so miserable you’ve crossed the point of comfort and simply rearranged atoms to make space until it’s firmly woven into you.

How do you even begin to tell somebody you can’t even manage to regulate your own happiness, that you haven’t been able to do that for years, that every time it comes back, it’s a little stronger and a lot more familiar and not any less easier.

“I’m sad” sounds equal parts overdramatic and gross understatement and so so silly but it’s the truth and how do you tell someone you feel like an absolute failure for it but you just can’t right now, you can’t.

How do you even hate yourself a little less? Cut yourself some slack? ‘Cause you can see it logically  sure, but mind and practice are two different things and both are out of commission lately and you need to get it together, this is an important year but you can’t. You’ve barely been holding it together for 3 months and then the universe decides to go ahead and screw you over a little more as if you need any more reason to be pathetic and sad and pathetic and it is so silly it’s laughable–if every laugh didn’t sound forced and fake and empty, like you were shredding up your lungs just to torture it into giving up that basic, basic sound.

Tone down the self-loathing, man. It gets old.

Anyway, point is all of it sounds like I’m just making excuses but I’m not. I want to be able to just function and I want to not be such a flipping mess, and I want  to be able to explain it to you in terms less weak and confusing. But I can’t.

I can’t get out of bed, and it’s such a fricking cliché, and I can’t find it in myself to care, I can’t keep telling myself this isn’t happening and that I’m good when I can feel it heavy and thick and blistering all around me and it’s so amazingly pitiful and I am so done.

I say sad and I say miserable but there are different kinds, like when your dog dies and it sucks but that kind of sadness is one that grows inside you, born of healthy feelings and normal responses, warm and not nearly as self-destructive and then there is the kind that descends over you like a blanket that you wrap around yourself in ways you can’t remember later until it feels like it’s just spun itself into your skin, a physical barrier between you and everything around you, filtering out everything until all that’s left is shades of muted grey and crimson–and why crimson where does that even come from and grey is such a fricking cliché — and it’s foreign and alien and familiar and what does one even say to that.

It is so messed up to describe any sort of sadness as flippin’ “warm” of all things but I speak in relative terms. It’s warm in the way the lump that surges up in your throat eventually goes away, and your eyes may be scratchy but you feel like you’ve been scrubbed clean, like there is a new day and the last one sucked, sure, but this one doesn’t have to. It’s warm in the way that you don’t find yourself drained and empty and pathetic, but just upset and exhausted while being secure in the knowledge that it’s temporary. It’s warm in a way the other kind of sadness isn’t, in a way that doesn’t leave you satisfied and avenged when you don’t eat or get out of bed or attempt to make things better for yourself. It’s warm in a way that doesn’t compel you to self-sabotage in ways nobody else notices.

The other kind is just plain cruel. Shaky hands and dim rooms and self-loathing.

I’m not lazy, I’m not making excuses, I’m just incredibly, terribly off.

(And I am sorry, I am, but I don’t know how to fix it)

 

Yours Truly,

sign-off

 

P.S I haven’t been around for a while and I apologize for that. I also apologize for coming back just to post this depressing thing but I really needed to just get it out. Thank you for putting up with it.

 

Vun, two, ha ha

You wonder sometimes if you’re just a dramatic brat so starved of any sort of personality that maybe this is just something you drummed up to be interesting. You’re not sure whether that thought comforts you or makes it worse, because if it is simply something you cooked up, then you could end it just as easily. There was never any definitive reason that made things turn this way, so maybe it could be something you came up with while bored. You’re sure of that some days. On the bad ones, you’re not.

You felt what you felt and even if there had been no basis to it, no causative event, it was still real. Tangible. Something bitter you could always taste at the back of your throat and feel weighing down behind your eyes and on your wrists. Something heavy and oppressive and uncomfortably silky that fashioned the jagged lump that was permanently lodged in your throat.

For a brief while, you thought it had gone away for good.

It hasn’t.

There are good days, that turn into weeks, and then months. Months where you genuinely believe it’s gone. But then you’re reminded of all the ways it’ll never go away.

You do things to try and cheer yourself up.

But that slimy, sour mass of a mini black hole that seems to have set up home at the base of your stomach sits stubborn and powerful as ever. Scoffing at your pathetic, weak, whimpering attempts at retaliation. You debate giving up.

Not in an everything sense, but little things. Little things that are never noticed by anybody else but weigh warm and heavy and suffocating against your skin. Little things you gently set on the ground and then on fire.

You think it’s hilariously stupid how those little things ever even mattered to you.

Lie on your bed and breathe. And stare at the ceiling and sleep. And when the sun’s out, get out of bed long enough for a few quips and obnoxious laughs and once the house is essentially empty because everybody is at work or school, climb right back in and lie on your bed. And breathe. And stare at the ceiling. But don’t sleep, because sleep is a break your body seems unwilling to take.

The sun is setting and then you are asleep. Soft sheets and soft pillows and soft sighs.

Wake up a little later on in the night to a quiet house. To muted light coming through the window and through the crack under the door. Sleep is a break your body is unwilling to take.

Lie on your bed and breathe. And think of all the times you laughed so hard it hurt. A stabbing pain at the base of your jaw, the side of your ribs, gripping your stomach–uncomfortable and painful. It’s unfair that you laugh and your insides twist and break and give way as if they weren’t built to accommodate a joy this vast, a happiness this loud. Yet your body is perfectly content harbouring a black hole, nourishing a discontent that should have been too much for it to take. A star is dying inside of you. Made of matter compressed and pushed into a tiny space. Everything that wasn’t right that you inhaled anyway, nestled amidst organs and arteries beating red and steady–enveloping it in a warmth that is yours to be loved with but is swallowed by that swirling fog at the base of your stomach.

Your body is a traitor, and your mind even more so. And you don’t know what to do. How to teach it to be more welcoming of delight and less so of misery.

So lie but don’t sleep. Or think a little too deep, lest your heart goes the way of your dreams–hacked and torn out of existence in the absence of sleep.

Yours Truly,

sign-off

The Witching Hour

First I heard of the witching hour, I was ten. That’s a lie. I don’t know how old I was. But I like having an exact time when I talk about important events because I like to think they were monumental enough for me to remember every little detail. Truth is, I never can. I’m sure I was somewhere around ten, but I could also just as well have been twelve. It was definitely after I turned nine.

It was while reading The BFG–which, for those of you who don’t know, is a book by Roald Dahl (a fantastic book, might I add), that I fell in love with those words. The witching hour. Magic and sorcery at its peak.

I fell in love with a lot of things in the books of Roald Dahl. The BFG’s dream-filled jars, the narrator’s white mice from ‘The Witches’, the centipede from ‘James and the Giant Peach’, every single word of every single chapter of ‘Boy’, but the witching hour was, by far, my favourite. Of course, the term wasn’t coined by Dahl but he was the one who introduced me to it.

In the sixth grade, for a creative writing competition, I wrote about an imp and a shoebox and a couple of kids. Heavily influenced by the works of Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, and Ruskin Bond. I won third place. Or second? One of those. It was while reading the stories written by my friends (devastated jilted lovers, vengeful enemies, moral enigmas) that I realized perhaps I was a little too old to be writing about magical boxes and shoebox theft. I decided I would write something a little more age-appropriate, something a little more rooted in reality.

Six years later, I still write about magical boxes and shoebox theft–among other things.

I don’t know where this is going.

It was initially just a few sentences on my appreciation of ‘the witching hour’ but that led to other memories.

Now every time I stay up past midnight I imagine dark magic to be at work whenever I hear a dog howl, or a windchime chime, or a cat hiss. Strangely enough, I have very noisy neighbours who seem to come alive as the sun sets and drum up quite the ruckus all night long.

Maybe there’s witchcraft at work here.

The kids never seem to sleep either, you can hear all sorts of shouts every now and then. And a number of cats hissing is also unusual. Do cats generally fight a lot? Is the witching hour real? The place does feel different at night, but maybe that’s just me. There’s something about being awake while everybody else isn’t. I’ve always loved that feeling. I was an early riser as a kid, and it always felt different to lie in bed and feel  the sun come up.

It’s a strangely satisfying feeling.  As if your entire existence is validated simply because you managed to be up before the sun.

Anyway, my A Levels are in less than a month. I’m not sure how maths is going to turn out. I painted a little.

 

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