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I live in a world that stops when the waters pour. This is no revelation. Just an inconvenient truth. Half my life’s made up of late nights spent in stranded solitude, with blaring red lights desperately trying to snake through bottlenecks of wet asphalt.
The fluidity of words is something I believe in. This is dogma – a commandment branded hot and searing to the innocence of my soul – what’s left of it at least. Like water, words may nourish thirst, but after some time, you pee it anyway. If there’s anything we feeble idiots can hold onto, it is action/inaction. It’s where you find traces of someone’s intent. Decode that and the world’s a lot less scary to navigate.
A quiz on Facebook asked me what abstract idea I fear the most and I tick time on instinct. This scares me. Mortality never bothered me as much when I was younger. These days feel like I’m rushing to make a mark in a world that just moves too fast for me to fathom. Can I tell you a secret? This fear is starting to rival the one I have about my writing. Someone once told me only two kinds of talented writers exist; one blessed with aptitude, the other driven by too much emotion. Take a guess which one I think, I fear, I belong.
I write in the weirdest of places. I guess you get more spontaneous as you get older. And then there is this whole argument about bleeding for your art. Pity the right-brained for they live in constant fear of losing their novelty, that they, we, ignite most when we’re just about to fade. This is inevitable. And I like it because it keeps me on my toes. I like it because no matter how godlike I feel when I wordsmith my existence to an art form, I am still bound to be as good as my last epic draft. Creativity is a blaring alarm and everyday I hear it go ‘tick tock, you’re irrelevant’.
I like it so much I could just die.
I love it when your contradictions become you, when your pointless pursuit of conquering time gets the better of you. But you love the adrenaline – the moment your skin flickers with anxiety, and everything becomes wobbly, and people laugh at your clumsiness, but all you ever wanted was to hold it together, and function, like a normal person would.
I wonder about you sometimes; when you claim you’re the embodiment of ache, and you tell people dealing with hurt that they’re doing it wrong, when you start to believe there’s no cure for your circadian disease and that you’re forever temporally challenged, but most importantly, when you feel like you’ve got the abyss on speed dial and you’re wondering when to say hello.
A wikipedia entry on shades of blue will introduce you to colors named Midnight, Independence, and Resolution. Although Independence has a bit of a grayish tone, all three, to me, resemble that of passing, of loss -Weltschmerz, if you may- maybe it’s more Mono no aware now, I can’t tell…
They remind me of the way I imagine you felt when you looked at me with acceptance, and pity, in the exact moment you finally understood what’s wrong: I still held fire, and yours was already put out by the things you could not stand about me, about how I always managed to have something left to give, even if I had nothing else at all, about the softness inside me I try to hide from the world, about how you drilled through all my defenses, and knew it’s time to leave me out in the cold, threadbare and freezing, desperately trying to warm myself up with the dying crackle of memories lit on fire, of burning what could have beens, and ashen regret.
I live in a world mired in quicksand indecisions. I believed in the words that escaped through your lips the night the world stopped. This was a miscalculation – then again everything else in my life is. I was blinded. And you were just too good at hiding intentions underneath the murmur of hopeless commuters, impatient car horns, and collective sighs of resignation. Maybe the inner workings of your mind, its clockwork movement, the machinations of your ambivalence, were far too complex for me to decode, and I was stupid enough to give you the manual to mine. Made it hard for me not to despise time and timing then.
I realize now that love is more than all the shivers that unravel to the touch, greater than all the fears that tear us asunder. I have yet to find a blue that resembles hope – other than the blinding indifference my skies have for your storms, the melancholy drizzle that blanket my nights.