5 more minutes please

"the present tense is all we have" 

the most liberating thing in this world is to be able to not tell someone to stay. 

the rain beckons us outdoors, and then chases us inside. it cannot make up its mind. all the love songs are equally undecided. they beg us to sing along to the chorus, over and over again. then you realise you're sick of the song before the last verse. the skies put on a splendid show every evening until you don't even look up anymore. it took me all these years to understand this constant fight between wanting and not wanting. i should've listened when Emerson said, "adopt the way of nature. her secret is patience."

i am, tonight, more at peace than ever before. cryptic poetry has given way to prose, like uncomprehending pain has given way to happiness. a happiness born out of the ashes. a happiness that does not know the bounds of the real world. a happiness that needs no other. a happiness that propels me through the universe from the simple power of being able to let you go. 

i have learned to adopt the way of nature. her secret is now mine as well. 

i am in no hurry for you to come. or go. 

broken is beautiful

the japanese have a tradition they call kintsugi, where they use gold, silver or platinum powder mixed with lacquer to repair something that is broken. so the repaired piece becomes more beautiful than the original, and becomes a part of the object's beauty rather than render it useless or old. the "wounds" of the object thus become an integral part of its being, rather than something to be hidden.

our lives are constantly broken. by time, by thought, by mystery, by people and by grief. and nothing breaks you more than the unknown. every person i meet seems to be mortally afraid of being alone. better sad days than lonely days. better a bad movie than a quiet weekend. better a bad relationship than dinners alone with the wind. when did we all become so afraid of ourselves? do we not trust? is there no meaning anymore in the self? is the soul determined to wander confused and aimless because it was not taught how to love the self above all else?

in the 15th century, when kintsugi originated, it was rumoured that people became so enamoured with the art that they deliberately broke precious lacquerware so it may be repaired with strands of gold. wabi-sabi, a related Japanese concept talks about how you embrace the flawed and the imperfect, and how an object's brokenness simply becomes an event in its life, rather than the end of its journey.

you are the gold lacquer that has now filled the cracks in my soul. i am broken, but you have made me beautiful. i am alone, but you have taught me how to be happy. i am lonely, but i now know how to cherish it. you are the love that has repaired the thin fissures of my soul, and made me more beautiful than before.

later

"i can't live,
with or without you..."

i had a strange dream sometime ago. strange because i remember it even after all this time, and because the more i think about it, the less it seems like a dream.

i saw you. many many moments after we had parted, i saw you suddenly in the middle of a crowded place, late one weekend afternoon. i saw you, and you didn't see me. i watched you. you were smiling; the same smile that lights up the world around you. you were holding her hand, and she wouldn't let go. the tears rolled down her face, her hands scrunched around your finger, trembling and scared, wanting nothing more than to be in your arms and rest her head on your comforting shoulder. you hold her, her tears slowly fading. you lead her to a chair, sit down, put your arms around her and hug her as she slowly closes her eyes. she melts into you.

you look up and see me. time stops in its tracks, and the world stops turning. she isn't crying any more, but i can't seem to stop myself. tears break through my resolve, tears that defy the iron-clad rules of love, despite the smile on my face. you wave at me and smile. i smiled back, i promise i did. you beckon me to you, invite me to walk those thirty steps to you. i stand where i am, i wave and shake my head. no. we looked at each other, smiles on our faces, tears in our eyes and our souls on fire, burning down the entire universe. i stood where i was.

after what seemed like eternity, when the little one looked up at you, you tear your eyes away from me to pat her back to sleep. the spell was broken. you looked up again, and i was gone.

in my dreams, i swear, i did the right thing.

allow me

it's quiet. at last. nothing but the swish of the tree outside my window. and the crickets wishing each other good night a thousand times. because saying it once may not make it good enough.

i'm alone for the first time in seven days, after going over every deadly sin. thursday for sloth, friday for envy, saturday for pride, sunday for greed, monday for gluttony, tuesday for wrath and wednesday for lust. seven days of going from wanting to kill the self to feeding the soul. the trees and the water and the rocks and the sun tried to feed the hunger in my soul, while the smiles and the hugs and the laughter were slowly poisoning my blood.

strange observation that love is not one of the seven sins. suffice to say i would've been held guilty many times over, if it was. unrequited, unfulfilled, unnecessary love. i would need more than seven days of seven years to fall out of love. but it took me less than seven minutes to fall in love with you.

i am alone, at last. i have the night stretched out in front of me, in all its glorious, sexy self. waiting for me to stroke it and kiss it and thrust it to satisfaction. and whisper sweet nothings in its ear, so softly that even the stars will not overhear. because the bastard stars hear everything i say and remember everything i do.

and as i melt into the darkness, there is only thing i want, and only one thing i am grateful for:
i am alone, at least.

the unbreakable, innermost russian doll

second born. a name that starts with the second letter of the alphabet. woman. second thoughts. second choice. it seems my life is a strange phenomenon of two. always the second, not the first. average. not great, just good enough.

i sit in an almost empty house (thank goodness for my cat), on a quiet saturday afternoon, with the fan whirring at full speed the only noise i hear. the whirring is familiar, sounds like the thoughts in my head. i am sadly reminded that this year, i will be thirty years old. thirty years of a life led in the second person. a second person that lives in my head and constantly reminds me of the depressing truth. thirty years of a life, with nothing to show for it except money owed to banks and friends and family, work that seems insignificant the next day, friends that no longer remember me, broken relationships that were broken, strangely, because i could not fathom that the second is more important than the first. 

jokes about me taking my pills on time, and being bipolar and depressive seem all too real with every passing day. i stare at a wall, asking myself, or rather asking it if i am depressed after all. i sit on an imaginary abyss, hoping and praying someone or something would pull me back. either ways, i remain true to the hopelessly, disillusioned second person i am. 

someone once asked me, what makes me happy. i could not think of a single thing. either i am happy in a way that needs no reassurance, or i am unhappy enough to not want happiness at all. no matter how many quotes i pin on my board, how many paintings i make with reds and yellows, no matter how many poems i write, i cannot seem to fill this space that slowly becomes darker than the darkness i know and cherish. 

when people would ask me what i wanted in life, my answer was - i want only two things: to be thin and to be rich. years and years of wanting something has now become something that can either drown me once and for all, or be my only saving grace. every day is a struggle between making those two dreams come true, and wanting to give up dreaming altogether. i have either reached a stage of complete nirvana, where i want for nothing and no one wants me; or i am at the cusp of achieving greatness. i do not know. i used to revel in my solitude, protecting it and watching over it as if it were an only child. now, i am begging for a crutch. something, someone, some kind of solace that will make me want again. 

the second person in my head is shouting today. screaming and crying and pleading to be released. but she is hidden inside the smallest of the russian dolls. and all the walls i have built around me has trapped me in a maze that i cannot find a way out of. stone-cold-hearted, lying to myself every single day, smiling when i want to scream, crying in secret, resigning myself to second-best. no glory, no love, no kingdoms to torch for the sake of another, no more poems to write. even this note to the unknown is a second draft... 

and as the quiet gets quieter, i recognise the hidden truth, slowly emerging from the darkness. i must leave. again. a second time. leave this place that dulls my senses, blacks out my sky and injects despair into my bones. i must leave now. i must step away from the abyss, and trod against the darkness, no matter how comforting it is. but how? thirty years of a life spent trying to be happy, with nothing to show for it except uncountable poems about the darkness, and a growing fear of looking at myself in the mirror. either i continue living a lie, or i leave now. i think i'll choose option two. 

happy hour story

once upon a time,
it rained upon the world
for thirty three years
without respite.

and when the son came out again,
he knew his world had changed
forever.

time seemed to stand still,
and yet moved faster than before.
trembling hands now felt like warm heaven,
his lips seem to smile, with rhyme, without reason.
laughter burnt his throat more than liquor,
every day was more orange than the last,
and mere words seemed like song.

he tried to put things back in order, as before.
but the magic had seeped into the earth,
bursting in every tear drop,
rising up from the ashes in the ground,
twisting in the wind like broken conversations.

he couldn't dispel the wonder of the rain,
it was always all around him.
no matter how bright he burned,
it had turned his world into a looking glass.
his own splendor reflected in every inch of the universe,
finally showing him how to love himself.  

it took thirty three years of rain
to make the sun smile.

and everyday after that fateful day, he wondered
if he should thank the rain,
for knowing when to cry
and knowing when to stop.

new and delicious

I always send out a message 

to someone, before I take a flight. 

because, call me crazy, 

but everytime I or someone I know takes a flight, 

I imagine 

that's the last time I'm going to see them. 

so I'm always sending love to you

in case I never see you again 

and while everyone was pleased 

that she woke up earlier these days,

it was all because he made sure 

the newspapers didn't get wet 

in the garden. 

Eighteen

I don't really miss you. 

as if the sky misses the sun!

it's just a little incomplete,

but, the best of us are.

Ping

I'm sitting here today 

with my heart in my hand,

wondering if I should 

put it back in its hiding place

in a box on the shelf. 

I hope you will let me know soon

because it's beating really fast,

and I'm running out of breath. 

don't kiss me

and when it's you and me,

it's late night. 

the stars have fallen asleep,

and the moon is dreaming,

while the sky is falling. 

and all we have to do is kiss

for the moon to disappear,

and for the sun to come roaring in.

he who laughs best

i knew i was in trouble,
when i recognized the voice
of your favourite singer
in a song,
without looking up the name.

i bet someone in the universe
looked down at me
and laughed out loud.

honesty

it would not matter if i drew a secret map

to find my way back to your heart.

i am hopelessly lost already. 

it would be of no consequence if i wrote

the most beautiful poems for you, or read every book

to quote a smart line or two, when you are tired. 

it would not matter if i practiced my smile in the mirror,

or brushed my hair out of my face, the way you like, 

or was kind to strangers like you are,

or lived my days with a passion equal to your own. 

it would probably not matter

if i slit my wrists again, so you would know the truth.

it is of no importance that i over-achieve my target

because i was aiming wrong all along.

it would not matter if i tattooed your breath on my skin,

just so i could feel you any time i want. 

it would not matter if i was perfect, because you don't want it.

and if i was your one wish come true, 

you would not know what to wish for next. 

it would not matter if i stopped time, just to kiss you again,

because i would just be left with another broken thing. 

all of my great life does not matter.

because it will never be shared with you.

this is the worst movie we have ever seen. 

and the end doesn't even matter anymore. 

being home

if you have taught me to feel love again, 

it has to be you

who shows me how to let you go. 

i would rather spend countless days 

in the parched desert,

dying in the cold sand of loneliness,

than stand in this rain of happiness

that washes over me every time i see you. 

teach me how to let you go.

i promise to learn the lesson. 

by heart. 

it's true

i'm like medusa.

don't look at me,
you'll be hypnotized
forever.