Oblivion!

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...

How beautiful is the world outside me! The blue of the morning and the foggy afternoons I crave as I stare at the leafless trees drenched in vast nothingness, holding onto naked branches as they try their best to let go. Nature always has a say in the chaos, in the entropy of life and lifelessness, but it missed the human soul. In those shimmering lights from cars and buses, I see a foreshadowing of my own, with trembling fears and a scarred red, waiting silently for the lights to go green. It snowed, and I could sense that wet feeling of coldness on my skin. For once, I knew what cold feels like when it does not come from within. For once, I knew that there was something colder than me. For once, I wasn’t alone in this coldness, and for once, I felt happy. In the nights without jackets as I walked in the streets waiting for the coldness of the wind, I was reminded that there was lifelessness waiting for me. It was cold, it was what I needed. In those sweet shivers I felt with every br...

Hey dear life,  I hope you are still here. As I write this plea to you, I hope you are here silently listening to me and cheering me on from inside these walls which I constantly find myself staring at. These white walls, the white curtains, the white rhetoric, I can only assume this whiteness to be a witness to my melancholy. I know I know melancholy is supposed to be blue, but hey, for once, let me define the ghost in my mind with arbitrary feelings. For once, let me see the darkness in this white that deliberately amuses the core of my being because it sucks up the entirety of me in its existence.  There was once a friend I knew. A happy friend. I remember smiling at her before parting ways with her that Saturday as I rode the bicycle, and she left off in this myriad of diabolical void. She rushed off into it, and was smiling, waving at me. I couldn’t wave back because I was too stunned to see the reality of that mirage slowly coming into place. The waves crashing at the se...

  Back, holding back, holding myself from the anonymity I dare not overlap with my melancholy. You see, my moment is a lack of it, and my grief, a blissful happiness: I cannot imagine my life without them. Without predicament and a ruthless sense of being, without momentary smile shed under infinite sadness, without the real grotesque horror of the void, the abyss, I am nothing, because I cannot fathom the entirety of the cosmos which would exist only to make me believe it is okay to be alive. I need to feel, and if feeling is sadness, and if feeling is living that sadness while knowing I would rather not be in it, while knowing I would perhaps be gone without the stain of it in my bruised lips with tainted eyes looking for a hope on a gray sky, I would rather be gone. I would rather be gone.  Imagining the sidewalks with a wide red coat as I elude the harmony of reminiscence in the stuck train stations all so white and all so blue, so empty on the afternoon, the synchronous e...

 Only if airplanes could really fly me to memories and memoirs, then today this nauseated feeling crying inside me like broken sunglasses staring at the sun wouldn’t be there. The void, the abyss, the way emptiness chases you when you are full, only if my golden hoops knew that they are dangling happier than their wearer ever would be. Such a deliberately complex concept it is, happiness. The presence of it, the absence of it, neutralizing the avoidances and meritocratically praising the eye of it, it’s demeaning on its own to not feel happy, but the happy unhappiness the mirror reflects, I get disgusted to be alive in my soul and my body because of how scarce it is in its existence. The diabolical muse of the strings somewhere playing the orchestra of “Yellow”, and the moaning motive of its polaroid of sadness slowly steps in the paleness of the clouds, you see, even off-white is not white after all. In liking different shades, I forgot what the original felt like. It was a melanc...

I feel relieved today. Perhaps, the waves that are crashing on the seashore look at me with comfort and isolation as I sit here with my untied shoes and pale legs in withering epiphanies of what could have been a better way to come at the beach today. Perhaps my backpack could have stayed home, perhaps my hair could have flown slightly in the other direction. Perhaps the waves could have erased the little sand name I wrote but it didn’t. Maybe it realized the necessity of fragile validation for me and stepped away. As the waves crash in themselves with moon’s dangling effect terming brevity a scoundrel for its existence somewhere among false lowlands in the middle of nowhere, a brush of fresh air hurries my eyes to the portrait of strangers enjoying the beachy light as it is while I imagine a hummingbird resting across my arm and smiling at me.  The silence of the sound of waves cools the lack of feeling I feel everyday. Maybe that is why I feel like a liar whenever I even use the ...

Hi! Do you love your life yet? Or are you still in your Nastenka finding era? Maybe even living the counts of an immaculate human being wrongfully convicted of something? What if it’s nothing of that sort and you are basically just hoping to fall asleep on your couch because it’s been a long time since you have actually felt something? Maybe you are still waiting for the Darjeeling Limited to come take you to your destination, or perhaps you are waiting for the time to snoop back at you and let you understand the glorified prejudice associated with being Mia. All in all, dear, how does it feel to be lost in these modes of disquiet apprehension all so relatable to the life you are living and yet all so distinctly different that every moment of fleeing from this subjugation feels like a wakeup call that you are not giving enough details to what stands right ahead of you. Oh, how wonderful the story of Henry Sugar is! But, hey, you can’t beat life and intersectional feminism by being wond...