“I’ll die.. don’t do this to me..”
“Die then. I don’t care.”
“I’ll die.. don’t do this to me..”
“Die then. I don’t care.”
It was always a torture opening up in front of other human beings… Potential judges, weapons… which you feed with your own trust till they use it against you.
Pencils and papers were always my friends. Silent, open, blank, unbiased, and always on my side. Sometimes they even let me weep over them and smudge their pretty pages in ink and tears…
They never spoke a word against me. Never in my favour either really, but they let me fill them with my self. What could be a better commitment than to allow a human to completely fill you up…?
These pencils wrote a quadrillion words to express my pain and these pages absorbed ’em all like they were it’s own.
But then I stopped.
I found a person similar to that. I filled him and filled him with lots of love. I filled him till there was no more space to fill. He absorbed my pain just like the pages of my diary did. And he let me cry on him too. He did more in fact. He wiped those tears away for me.
But human beings are deadly weapons. They operate by choice and mood of their own.
All you have to do is load them up with your trust and your secrets. Tell them your flaws and your mistakes. Tell them your regrets and the truth about yourself and wait to see how the gamble turns out. More often than not they will shoot it all back together at you when you will be least expecting it.
They’re the revolver and your trust, the bullets. Tell them all your secrets and fill them with your trust and it will be the same as loading up a gun with bullets. Tell them more and more till there’s no space to fill them anymore and they’ll be a wholly loaded gun pointing right at you.
Now smile and say I trust you.
Soon after you’ll hear screams and find the paramedics collecting your traces off the ground.
I’m too invested in things more beautiful than poetry
So I’m trying
I’m getting requests to continue
And I don’t wanna refuse
I know the magic words can do
So I wanna continue
But about what
And where do I start
The weather’s nice
It rained today
Like the tears that I shed yesterday
But the rain is mercy
Unlike my pain
So I know I’ve healed
I felt happy
And I took my parrot out to the balcony
And he screeched and sang from excitement
And that was my heart.
Happy and joyful
Dancing inside from joy
I don’t get why people use umbrellas during such beautiful weather
It’s ungrateful and idiotic
Especially for people in Kuwait
I can’t believe they could be so dumb
After months of being roasted under the scorching Kuwaiti sun
You’d think people would cherish this beautiful weather
And drops of sweet water from the heavens
And the weather’s gift to the people of Kuwait
And they have the nerve to be so ungrateful
With umbrellas over their heads
And pacing speedily out from under the sky
So desperate to get inside
They don’t cherish it when they get it
And yet they complain all year round about how much they would love if Kuwait was breezy and cool
We live in a world where people who don’t have time
To cherish and enjoy the things they asked for all year round
What a strange world…
What a strange world…
“As women when we fight for our rights in our struggle to stand next to men in total and absolute equality, men are not really the ones that defeat us; even though they are the ones that insult us and discourage us the most.
The ones that defeat us are in fact women…
Those women that side with men.
And you know what’s ironic? They side with men by standing behind men. Not beside them.”
“One night a feast was held in the palace, and there came a man and prostrated himself before the prince, and all the feasters looked upon him; and they saw that one of his eyes was out and that the empty socket bled. And the prince inquired of him, “What has befallen you?” And the man replied, “O prince, I am by profession a thief, and this night, because there was no moon, I went to rob the money-changer’s shop, and as I climbed in through the window I made a mistake and entered the weaver’s shop, and in the dark I ran into the weaver’s loom and my eye was plucked out. And now, O prince, I ask for justice upon the weaver.”Then the prince sent for the weaver and he came, and it was decreed that one of his eyes should be plucked out.
“O prince,” said the weaver, “the decree is just. It is right that one of my eyes be taken. And yet, alas! both are necessary to me in order that I may see the two sides of the cloth that I weave. But I have a neighbor, a cobbler, who has also two eyes, and in his trade both eyes are not necessary.”
Then the prince sent for the cobbler. And he came. And they took out one of the cobbler’s two eyes.
And justice was satisfied.“
– Khalil Gibran, The Madman.
Run from the worries. From the tragedies. From the melancholies of vacant souls and empty homes. From your secretly damaged egos. From unloving, betraying selves. From dark desolate nights. From aching melancholic sighs. From haunting dreams and nightmares. And possessing demons and devils in your head. From your empty and starless skies. From the thundering rage of your lying desires. From the poisonous hate and loathing as it brews in your shattered broken heart. From the choking suffocating smoke of your own envy as it sets you on fire. From the wickedness in your smile as it turns you into stone inside.
Run from yourself. Your dreams. Nightmares. Love. Heartbreaks. Your pain. Your hate. Your own desperate desolate sighs. Your own broken ego as it survives. Run from yourself, love…
“I swear real liars are those
that believe their own lies
as they deceive someone else.
And play the victim themselves
as things begin to end.”
Or maybe not…
Maybe it is.
In all this bliss,
There are still parts of you
that have gone amiss.
And my heart is cold.
So is my skin.
My hands and lips and my eyes…
Not a single drop of tears to shed.
Empty and dead inside.
No feelings in there.
I can’t find them.
There’s just an empty void.
Dark and dull… no sense of joy.
Or even sadness.
Just a blanket
Of vacant thoughts
That I think at night.
But they make no sense when I wake up.
And my mornings are empty too.
Empty and pointless.
No sense of purpose.
Only me and daily routines.
Like my sentences.
Goes on and on…
I hope you’re well.
That’s all I hope for.
Don’t wish to see you again,
But I’d like to know you’re well.
‘Cause even though I’ve pushed you out of my life,
You’ve still managed to survive in my prayers alive.
And remain that way…
But a beautiful dream as well.
For someone else.
Not me anymore,
I’ve learnt to love myself again…
Today I finally suffice myself.
Memories are often vague. But I guess it’s better that way. ‘Cause when memories are as graphic and solid as photographs, they hurt.
I mean look at me. Quite a pathetic sight really. Clutching our old photograph in one hand and the other shaking in my blazer pocket. Gazing at that smile frozen on your face and that laughter in your eyes. Our hearts still unbroken. The distance still not in existence. Me right next to you with cake icing on my cheeks, looking awfully happy. That guitar you gifted me still intact in the background.
Oh this sight, really… The fact that we’re still stuck inside that time frame, that unbelievable glee still etched upon our faces, happy still inside this photograph… This hurts. The pain that rears in my chest breaks me as it spreads to the tips of my fingers, jolting me out of my wishful past and plunging me right into the reality of our present broken hearts and distances. The present where my guitar lies in heartbreaking shards of wooden pieces in some garbage dump from the night of our worst argument.
Look at this photograph! Those arguments and heartbreaks still undone. A terrible memory of how beautiful everything was! Our love for each other still intact. Not a scratch on the beauty of your soul… Our stainless beautiful smiles…
And look at us now. Outside this photograph. Our souls ripped in places. Our smiles stained with sad and empty eyes. Our love so horribly damaged.
Oh look at the sight of me! Breaking before a photograph! What a joke…
I hope you have our photographs too… I hope you haven’t disposed of ’em yet… I hope you break before them too. I hope your present hurts you just as much as mine does. I hope you feel pathetic too. I hope you cry at least once at the sight of our photographs. I hope you cry over it too. Over the heartbreaking beauty of our love frozen inside a photograph.
This post was inspired by Ed Sheeran’s Photograph.
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