Oblivion!

 The wind is chilly. It brushes off of me in almost utter silence, but the vows of a filthy integrity it breaks ever so often speaks to me of a hellish paradise. It’s funny even, how the embrace of wind is a means of ingenuity, of a broken sanity that almost feels like getting better. As the leaves channel their inner turmoil with nothing but a woe of despair rebelling against the wind, the instantaneous satisfaction of fighting against it knowing that they are never going to win, do you wonder if winning was ever their purpose? The branches speak of desolation with every swift, with every roar across the road screeching in the darkest alleys, cars whose tires have travelled the sane reality of the world, the tremor across the bushes as it passes by, who gave anybody the right to experience something, or anything, or nothing? It’s a dumb perception, honestly. People walking in sweaters, the concrete below me steady and cold, and yet, in between the walls of a rusty room rests a sen...

And in the choice of life and death, I am a pendulum choosing nothing – just lingering. I want to walk away– but my feet listen to me no longer. It’s  grieving the steps I probably didn’t take.  Lingering for choices had never been this harder,  as for the absolute extremities of my own,  the eyes that wept in desolation,  wishing for existence to fade away,  the whiskey that washed my fears of death, and the indifference that made me wish for it.  I no longer feel a human,  perhaps borrowing art from artists and soul from life made me a heinous entity whose crime  was wanting a will to live;  this entity deserves nothing, or perhaps  the idea of nothing. But in the tattoos and music taste, a bitter taste of coffee lingers,  a predicament, even,  of a wish the entity seems to rehabilitate upon. This entity  is a nuisance, a bruise. This entity is just absence. Yet,  it acts as if it trusts itself.  There’s s...

Grief is emotion on steroids. You are fine one moment, sipping tea in your room, and the very next you break down crying as someone’s laughter echoes in the room next door. It comes to you as you sit with a group of people reading a book you really love, and the disquiet that stems from not turning the page at the right moment gives you an ache you can’t comprehend. It gets to you as you stand on the train waiting for your stop, and pours at you when you are smiling towards the moon in hopes of a good night. Grief comes to you as if you are its home, because you’ll welcome it no matter what. Grief houses itself in the tiny corridors near the valves of your heart, waiting for you to recognize it, waiting for you to feel it, waiting for you to see it with your own eyes as you stand tall in front of a mirror and your eyes look into the void of lifelessness situated in that image. It’s not dark; it’s full of light, full of sentiments you don’t want to know, and grief stares back at you. It...

 The sun hasn't risen yet. Kathmandu is asleep. And as I sit facing the life around me, drenched in my own turmoil, I feel like a body on the verge of cremation waiting for its soul to give answers to every question. I have come to realize that the greatest disease a man can have is abnormality; it's this form of painful awareness of knowing you can't get better and this utter confusion of asking oneself if I even want to. Life reeks of intelligence and philosophy, entities dive into star faced paradise of knowing the truth and knowing how humankind is just a speck in the universe. But why this numbness? Why does this dust not have the liberty of feelings when even a plant around it turns towards the sun? Why is it that affirmation of a new beginning needs the sun to tear apart me every day just so I know this isn't a monotonous apprehension of everything I have ever done? I am not sad; I am not disappointed either. I just have questions, something that's inherent t...

Sometimes you know, there is this part of me which just wants to be happy and have fun, but then I realize those moments of fun for me are nothing but me analyzing the world, different aspects of it, finding solace in apprehensions that others might not entirely get and all in all becoming a liability to myself because I am too harsh to live a life of happiness within myself. I am just a nobody to me, and I will always be a nobody to me no matter how I live or what I choose to do because this is the reality I have made for myself and I am incredibly insisting on being a being in my vicious cycle of finding a momentum in life that I no longer have the will or the choice to. You see, I grew up romanticizing my sadness, I grew up thriving in it, to me, happiness is like a horizon, its always near but never attainable. The farther I go and the more I live, I realize that this count of mine which I inherently enjoy just by being a person who valued dignity and values and intelligence over h...

 There is pain inside me which feels so real, more real than what I will ever be. In the depth of nothingness, it stems from tiny affirmations of my will to live; my will to exist. I cannot be this figure of condemnation for me, and yet I am. I lie and lie and lie, to myself, to people I love (barely) that this pain means something, while in reality it smothers me every night as I stand in the middle of the room with lights as bright as the sun in my crumpled dress with no awake human at sight. I lie that I am okay, I smile, I laugh, because I cannot do anything else.  It’s a different kind of pain-inability. It is toxic; it is mundane. A fear of letting go subsides in me as I think of all the things I want to do, this hope of being a human character who feels deeply is taking my life away, and I am suffocated in it. It feels like standing on the beach nude basking in the sun letting people peek at your vulnerability. The exposed skin of my conscience which burns in the sunris...

I remember nothingness as it seized my being into this voodoo doll of cascade of mourning smiles and loud silences. Walking to the mountains, clipping the fingernails with my teeth beside the campfire, the hollow stare at the white snow, the breeze of allegory of the stained flakes that pierced the sunshine the same way the abyss does to me. You see, I have always liked mountains for this scene. You see a sunrise; I see a murder. Who said sunrise was a beginning was perhaps a coward looking for hope. But the reality of existence is one of non-existence: one cannot fathom a sin of not living, and yet he lives a dead life every day. He is rotten with every sunrise. The depth of loneliness he feels in those bright black walls – all shining through his epiphanies and lifelessness – the closed eyes that see life more than the open ones, I am disgusted by everyone who calls darkness horrible. They don’t feel his honesty, they don’t feel his breathing beats and they don’t feel the rusty smile...

I feel sad. I feel cold. As if something just ruptured my heart to endless pieces with a stick, I feel empty. Like a bare bottle lying around, like a crumpled sheet of paper, like a worn-out shoe and like the crusty leaf someone just stepped on. It's agonizing, you see, to be this fragile, to be this broken and to be this futile in the grand scheme of things. How could you do this? As the visuals of the car rushing into my bare skin haunts me every single day as I stand uptight, as the shower curtains slowly trap me in their whiteness to make me feel smothered, I don’t know how long someone can hold onto this numbness. But sometimes, yes sometimes, I do feel you, your warmth, the way you could always find happiness in life, and how I am no way between them and am far away hoping to be asleep. Please, let me sleep. I don’t want to do this anymore. There is no more hope left in me now, beloved, no more.  Don't lie to me anymore. Make this over. I’ll never be me again. Please, shu...

 I remember the summer night with me on the stairs wishing,  wishing I could let go of you and see you past that door of epiphany, but I stood there holding your arms. I couldn't set you free.  As I look around running cars now,  a trepidation slithers through me. I see you in front of them --- your shallow, hollow figure  caressing the cold with your bare hands, smiling at the unknown and I pass to you --- through you because you look beautiful. Nah, you look happy.  In the rain, as my wet self walks around in its adventure, I see your hope piercing my heart  questioning my silent epitaph and feeling so grotesque.  I lie down, in those desolate muddy roads and cars pass by me, but I am strangely still there.  I see you asking me for a cup of coffee. I see you explaining functions to me.  I see you.  But this happiness that arrives with you,  my dear, I can't take it anymore.  Don't corrupt me, please.

 I remember the last snow, how it melted into your cheek  and caressed your skin.  With shivers and slight amusement, the blush on your face spoke  of how much you felt that moment.  I admired that happiness, the innocence of your eyes  and the depth of your soul.  How could you betray them?  With a solitude so dear,  you looked at me, and the way you dressed me  with blossoms of your heart, as you patiently waited, a jewel made of abundant scars, I had never seen you so full, so raw with emotions and so deliriously oblivious.  How could you betray yourself? As you made the snowman, the soft hands freezing with desolation, you looked at me and said, “Isn't it perfect?” Oh, how could anyone ever doubt  the perfection of those hands! But in the redness of them, in their overlooked hostility, those perfect hands tore you.  How could they betray you?  My dear, can you not see the horror  your beautiful eyes have pain...