Certain Depths
This depth in me, I would like to uncover. I cannot seem to reach the surface. Even if I do, I am drowned all the same. She knew that I would get better and I did. Somehow, perhaps in her sub-consciousness, she had realized that things will change. She had refused to believe it, or more precisely, her head refused. But what pains me is that everything lasts for a moment, leaving you empty, leaving you hungry. What is this unending loop of utter despair? I dream of people I have not touched. The sun as it enters my room brings a ghost to suffocate me. How do I disentangle myself from this labyrinth? She knew it, she knew how hard it could be, to be constantly in conversation with this “other” you, whose screams you cannot seem to ignore. You let her be too loud. I urge you, to scream back. A book in your lap, you cannot seem to ever finish. A reading you memorize because no longer does it matter to you. I said “no”, today, in a very long time. She witnessed herself wither away into dust and she is refusing to gather the pieces, to make herself whole again. I call you for I need to put my head on your lap, forgive and forget. Her love would be projected through Times New Roman, the colour of her love being in nude pink.
Deep inside, you want to wallow. Self-sabotage again, to destroy the little spirit left in you. But however can you recover like this? It is not your fault to take a step and be brave. But now you realize that courage can lead you astray and your whole world falls apart all the same. WikiHow failed to show how to get out of this head of mine. In retrospect, all these links on how to help you, rid of the endless wave of thoughts, do not at all seem to address the problem. If she sought a solution, she would not know where to start for one Pinterest pin contradicts the other Pinterest pin.
On this day, a year ago, she took a photograph of the tree in front of their place. The sky was suffused with clouds. The blossoms were a shade of baby pink. A simple step outside, with the touch of the soft ground beneath her feet, she recognized what poets wrote about. A breeze gently caressed her skin, whispered into her ears the longings of a distant bird. All she wanted was to feel her body in sync with that single moment in time. She must have hummed a song or two. When you have something worth holding on to, you take it for granted. You realize, months later, that those were the days you were content with. A mere shower in a hot, summer, July night, while listening to a stranger practicing the Svara, was special. The past is always missed a little too much. The present is what you do not ever seem to come to terms with. The future pervades your head until it feels like exploding into bits. Do you remember that phase, when you chased after scents to remind you of memories, long hidden deep inside your sub consciousness? The other day, you asked her, what perfume she was wearing. You could not recall what you associate it with, but you knew the familiarity of it. Oh, you must miss the past so much for what it was and for all that it wasn’t!
Listening to all those Mitski songs, she tends to glorify her tragedies, knowing full well that it is up to no good. If this is not bovarysme, then what is it? She is delusional, but so am I. You see her walking up to the abandoned library, searching not for books, but for a destination. She would walk back home and leave again. And then back to the library. Then again, back home. All these pillows, witnessed her rambling to herself all the things she would never say. An insomniac, she lay awake enough to watch the sun rise from the horizon and yet, managed to walk for an hour. She slept. She wept. She bled.
