fAilure

I feel at a loss for words. My dad thinks it’s my fault that I'm this sick. My mother is acting as if I'm about to die or something. I don’t know what to feel. At some very basic level in my heart, I'm… relieved. It has finally happened. I'm glad its going to be over soon. I don’t want to live in this entity anymore with this pathetic excuse of an existence. I'm tired to playing by the rules and hurting everybody I love so much if I don’t. Maybe that is the problem. I'm hurting people. But really, the problem is that I love people who don’t love me back. Is that bad? Is that sad? Yes, it is. Very very sad. Almost as sad as not being able to scream when a toe nail comes off. Maybe more so. Because, even a whimper is not allowed.

But is this the best way to go to the end? I don’t know. Seems befitting somehow. A being of words dying because her mind refused to work. Almost symbolic. Why cant it be over sooner? Is this the price one pays for asking questions from God? Is there no freedom? Will there be none forever?

The condition is pathetic. My body refuses to work towards health. I'm hollow from inside, almost every organ acting on its own, running, walking, striving to reach the end before the other. My brain working overtime. Its like a war going on inside me and nobody’s winning. I'm still the same from the outside. I even manage to smile and be polite. I crack jokes too. I cracked a couple with my doctor when he was looking at my MRI results. I couldn’t lee him see that I knew what was in those scans. With or without the contrast. What difference would it make? He seemed sad. Which made me laugh harder at my own jokes because I couldn’t let him see me crying. Why would I cry? I wanted this for so long…

I have a friend who says that I get all the diseases with the fancy names. He says that’s typical of a rich- daddy’s girl. Obviously, we both pretend that he’s joking. We laugh at the end of all- such- conversations. Obviously, he’s not pretending. Obviously, the laugh is not genuine.

I don’t know what to write anymore. I guess I will have a couple of regrets when it all ends. I wish I could have been a better daughter. I wish I could’ve gotten that gold medal my daddy always wanted me to get. I wish I could’ve gotten at least half an ounce of love from the only person I’ve loved for the past 5 years. I wish I could’ve told him that I loved him.

But nothing matters at the end. I know this because I truly am, at the very end. I know exactly how it feels, where it hurts, where it doesn’t. I know what numb pain stabs like. I know. I know the guilt I face each day. I wish the treatment wasn’t this expensive. I wish my parents would let that fragment of hope go; let me go. I wish our lunch time conversations hadn’t come to an uncomfortable silent end. I wish I wasn’t born.

What good it is to be born and end this way?

melted crAyons

Nobody knew what being truly in love meant. They all fantasized about experiencing it. They would tell each other, ask from everybody they came across and sometimes be bold enough to even proclaim about the greatest love they had lost to some very distasteful occurrence like death or a commitment to another (equally repugnant, I assure you). Every time the winds would blow, they would each look at one another and sigh; a sigh of extreme aggravation, exaggerated to the limits of sanity. Then ‘looks’ would be cast heavenward, as if waking God from a slumber of a thousand years, eyes darting from one fluffy cloud to another, visions searching desperately of a single ‘sign’ of hope to be in this Great Love that people used to talk about. The kind that makes stories, the kind that doesn’t think of petty issues like income or luxury, the kind that locked a many behind the bars for infinitum; while their tales were hushed but still told outside; the kind, that actually was love.

And so, one fluff- cloudy day, while everybody was trying to invoke something in their respective gods with sad, gloomy, and desperate and many another looks, someone bumped into one of them: another being from another planet, a look- alike but a world apart. As dainty as the stem of a wine glass and equally desirable, the collision was nonetheless distracting, if not near- fatal. The heads turned, they eyes looked a little below the skies and found the girl looking up too.

“What in the world are you looking at?”
“For love, off course! What else you silly being?!... ”
“Searching for love?…” A small giggle “… but why must you look for love in the skies?”
“Well then, where else missy?”
“It’s almost always right in front of you, not in the skies at least. Stop bothering the Lord! He has other people to attend to!”

For the first time in ages, all minds in all the brains collected there in all those heads calculated something in her voice. As if (do they dare hope?) she actually knew what she was talking about! But that can’t be. That just can’t be! The small smile was almost mocking, bordering on the edge of sweetness, as if she knew better than all of those minds in all of those heads. Is it possible that this small slip of a girl knows what true love is? Had she actually been in it? Better yet, was she in true love right now??! Almost dead with the temptation, somebody croaked in the smallest of voices,

“Little girl, do you have any idea what you’re hinting at?”
“Hinting at? Oh, but, I know! I know all there is to know about a true love…” The head got raised a little higher, the stance became haughty.
“Then you must tell us at once!”
“Tell you what old man?” Old man? “I just told you. Love is almost always at your step, scared of its own shadow, scared that you will never look at it and step over it in some great hurry”.
“Then where must we look for it?”
Irritated! “IN YOUR FEET!”
“BUT IT”S NOT THERE” same tone!

“You don’t have the eyes to see”
“Show us then!”

“True love is like a breeze, a warm soft breeze that will relax you, make you want more…
True love is like an acid rain, you’ll want to run for cover, there will be no shelter and your skin will get blisters…
It’ll make your heart swell till you can take it no more.”

“Oh?!”

“Yes! I have experienced it. It is truly beautiful.”

“But, then, where is he?”

“At work”

“And he sent you here alone?”

“Sure! He’ll be back in a few months time.”

“How long has been gone?”

“A few months”

“Why did he not take you with him?”

“Silly! What would I do with him over there? I can stay here and pretty myself till he comes back. We do have a Happy- Ever- After after all...”

“Oh” A few snickers

Haughtiness returns



Commotion in the background, a few children running after a poor dog. Suddenly one child looks at the small crowd gathered around something. LOOK! They might be giving candy to people. All run! Small feet shuffle quickly, trying to do justice to the action and the intention. They all gather around the “tall” people, failing to get a look, they crawl between the legs.

“Oh!” one child exclaims disappointedly, “no candy”. They are just talking to the crazy woman.

“Yeah? My mother tells me to stay away from her. She’s always mumbling something we never understand.”

“Lets go then.”

“Lets go!”

inside the Dungeons

I dont know where I am anymore. It's a dark and misty place, a place where shadows sleep, memories weep and heart breaks many times over. The walls are soo tall that no one can climb to the top and each has a window in it. But the windows have long been sealed to keep away from God- knows- what- harm. The harm has already been done. The body has been violated, the soul etched with an impurity, the heart injected with blackness. The shadows grow deep, the light fades away. My misty eyes, nobody sees. My broken heart, nobody knows...

I hear somebody laughing. It echoes, bouncing off the walls repeatedly, each time a little fuzzier, a little slow. I strain forward, trying desperately to recognize the source. The voice is no longer there. It was, but, a memory. My heart bleeds a little more. He still doesnt seem to know. My purity stinks from the wretchedness. I roll in self- disgust, I loathe myself. So weak? Oh i was not born like this. Desperate for one look, one touch from the right person... and yet being raped by nameless, faceless people all around me.

A small paper flies past me. Instict urges me to catch it. I look at the fading handwriting. My heart leaps for a moment and quitens immediately. It was a long time ago. Another rape story. Only this time, it was no rape. It was self- mutilation. There is a number on the paper, written in lead pencil. Memories stab me yet again. "I'll never be away, I promise. Call this number whenever you want to..." I had never found the strength to keep a steady voice and dial those digits. I had cried alone so many times that it had become a habbit, one that actually felt like a part of me, an essential, a necessity...

The paper crumbles in my hand and I let go. The faint breeze takes it to the roof, slaps it a couple of times as if demanding some sacrifice and upon receiving the dues, it flies it over the top, to freedom. My dues?, I scream. No voice comes out of me. I slump back.

My life is over somehow. I don't need, i don't feel. I don't care. I don't want to. My body commits sins my soul has no control over. My mind makes plans my heart no longer wished to entertain. I fall and don't even try to get up again. I just push the small stones away and lie down, expecting another fall to come soon.

I don't want bigger things in life.

I don't want small things either. Once, a long time ago, I had truly wanted him.

Dear God, I had loved him so...

pAwn in The Game...

If he is not mine, then why do i hurt so? why does it pain so? i dont want this nemore. my screams reach to nowhere, my sighs never get out of my lips. i cant even breathe, such is the despair. no no no. i dont want this, take this away from me. let me live. let me breathe in freedom of my own choice. for one, just for one godamn blasted second, lissen to me. whoever is up there, whoever is supposed to help the world out. i am urs. u created me, then why do u forsake me? why do you not lissen? why cant i know what u want for me? you who everybody says are the grand schemer, tale me out of ur game. im tired of being a pawn in this game. i dont want this nemore. why cant i be normal? just be normal. how many times shd i beg and bow? how much shd i offer? is this not enuf? i have nothng more. why not? WHY NOT??? if not him, then who?

rAbba

Rabba...

A Thousand Words

An old gilded frame, rustic, hardly any paint left on it sits subtly on the mantle, partially hidden by the flower vase *old dried flowers which are being watered enough to cause a miniature tsunami in dire hopes of survival* Two pictures; one on top of the other. The top one is transparent: it shows off the one underneath to almost perfection… almost. It does make it a little blurry, a little rough around the edges. But it also protects without over shadowing it. In plain view, the picture on the top doesn’t seem to have much importance, other than to faze out whatever’s underneath. The eye moves over it a little too quickly, dismissing it in a hurry, eager to see what lies beneath it. Nobody detects the faint water marks *tears?!?* On it, or the crease lines *folding unfolding repeatedly?* everybody is in a hurry. Everybody is an ass.

The picture underneath seems like such a mystery. Everybody just HAS to see it. Remove the top one from the frame. Just a peek. It has to be done, curiosity has to be satisfied. Look from the back of the frame, maybe a shadow will prove a little helpful…

Nobody can make out the correct image, assumptions; they are all assumptions. Some try to coax the top one aside; others will shamelessly push it away. Suddenly the old frame is the centre of attention. Someone accidentally tears a part of the old picture. The torn piece flies in the air, an insignificant little detail… discrete coughs and the person resumes the “fine” work in progress… and the top picture is finally slid out of the frame, a couple of other pieces fly in the air, go near the fire place and well, burn. The picture is carelessly put on the rustic table. The water marks on it are somehow clearer now. Tears? How would they know?

Everybody seems to gather a little closer around it. They all want to know what the picture says to them, a thousand words? What if it’s a million?...

A collective sigh; all straighten their backs. Someone coughs, others look to the floor. Are they ashamed? Someone picks up the old picture and tries to slide it back in the frame. It won’t go in. impatience combined with the shame forces the picture in… and tears it right down the middle. They all look embarrassed, here and there their glances dart. A man picks up the frame and resignedly puts it back on the mantle… with the other picture still inside it; the white colored plain paper… the paper that has no image is now in the frame.

They all start talking again. The old picture lies under their shuffling feet. It was of a small boy running after a dog on a sandy beach while a woman of considerable years smiles at him. It had tears on it. It had been folded and unfolded uncountable times before being put in the frame… the same frame which now supported nothing.