i thought of making another blog, starting a story from scratch, erasing the past i had myself forgotten; but i couldn’t. i couldn’t think of what to call it, couldn’t make my own words, having used yours for so long.
so, still, i write to you, though you are mine. i still write to you for who else could I write to, who else makes my heart slurp up the blood quite so greedily, who else can take the whole of me with one look? if he exists, and doubtless he does, i haven’t found him yet.
you swept me off my feet watching sunrises by my side in the train, gaze lingering to my thighs, lips ready to go for the jugular. you courted me through the snow, waiting for my other loves to die a natural death. you won me, fair and square, because it was i who awakened the predator in you and blood-lust blinkered you. i let you into the darkest part of me and you took me but if you stopped loving me, i would stop loving you. i must admit, there are nights when i wonder what that pain would feel like.
over time, i understood i never meant to be the best, only desired. i’m not ashamed of that – all that we are, all that we have stems from desire. the instinct to conquer is stronger than the instinct to love. you should know that because i don’t miss X and Y. you should know that because i still write. you should know that because once in a while i tell you that i don’t believe in love.
i’m that girl you met all those years ago that told you i was gonna fuck a lotta guys, just different.
it’s nights like this, the lonely sort of nights, when bones are aching, theatening to fire spasms into the dark of blood, that peace prevails. it creeps up silently, a stranger, acting swiftly and clumsily, like a child. sometimes it breaks for a moment only to shower you into a steep impenetrable sort of calm; a calm of chilly summer nights far away in oklahoma somewhere, where you’d lay with a straw in your mouth and long grass all around and all you’d see would be stars twinkling up above you.
reading does that to me – the book transports me, holds me, lures me and scares me back to life. i grow upwards and shrink further to the ground with every word, holding my breath as if underwater, sometimes.
it’s the ideas, the words; its everything i cannot do and wish i could. it’s the perfect storytelling of silence, the pictures projected on the retinas of the eyes without the image being there.
it’s brilliant, this magic. so brilliant that in the heart of this throbbing, vivacious city i find myself transported to the loneliest, most tranquil place on earth, as if the skyskrapers have ceased to exist, as if the traffic has stopped its clamouring and honking.
i’ve always thought that without books, life would not be worth living. it is the books we read that chart our life as dreamers, artists, schemers, men.
don’t we all know that the best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men / gang aft agley? but books, they never deviate, they never stray. forever constant, those letters on a page, changing only with the change in our perception.
who’s been alive in you,
wading in the mesh of liquid wires
through the medleys half-sung and the letters unsent
the nights wasted sleeping
time, like currency, spent
who drew the curtains, left vacant sign
on every window of every door
and begged the world to give you more
who was it?
everybody who has ever been truly loved has that person, that left them because they loved them far too much to let them settle for a rainbow in the sky.
Posted in excerpts
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maybe i’m not the girl i thought i was. everyone i love along my way tells me so.
today was one of those days. i blurted out i’m in love with you and, cue the lights, i think i meant it.
it took me by surprise. i never said those words before. to me, they were more foreign than our first kiss, for yes, i loved, but loving is easy. apart from the times when it’s hard.
in love is more than love. it’s a choice.
and it might have been the postcoital slur or a byproduct of nights where sleep is a distant dream undreamt, but i don’t think it was.
so tell me, why is it so difficult to believe that i have found peace at last?
maybe because i’m not so sure i have. when i called my best friend today and told her of the incident, all i heard on the other end of the line were shocked squeals and laughing congratulations.
she told me she was happy for me. she also said she didn’t expect it in a million years.
and i realised i’ve lived two lives all along. one – where i dream of convention and the other, the free, liberated me, – the one with which i face the world.
but words are words. did i mean it and then, what does it mean? are we forever is this the end or the beginning or the pause?
i’m tired of being scared. drag me into the deep end. see if i float.
Posted in chapters of my life
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