“But I love you,” he said.
And I wondered where he got the notion that saying the words “I love you” was akin to an eraser which wipes off a slate of past mistakes; a chant which hypnotises one into prompt obedience regardless of the absurdity of the orders; a piece of blindfold over a woman’s eyes to block off the reality of events.
Or maybe, he just assumed I am like the other woman who had come and gone. A blooming soul withered by a facade of love, fed on sugar coated words which tasted like nothing- nothing- a compilation of meaningless gestures- suffocating.
And maybe (cause I can only assume as mama always said speak for yourself alone) he was fed on the notion that love is blind, love is an eraser and love hypnotises in the hands of a man.
But honey, Living has taught me, you can scream I love you until the oxygen carrying capacity of your lungs deplete, without sincerity in action, it don’t mean nothing. Call me cynical, but living otherwise would have me ending up just like the other woman. A washed-up replica of a once upon a time star.
I am who you think I am and who you think I am not. I am a chest of secrecy and a cloak of openness. I am the strict parent and the fun-loving one. Yes, adrenaline courses through my blood and yes, I need caffeine to go through the day.
I am the spontaneous friend and the sensible one. The burger binger and the salad encourager. The lens wearer and the makeup lover. The football junkie and the pink stiletto owner.
I am who you know me to be, and who you’d never imagine of me. A hopeful dreamer and soulful realist. A traditional home-maker and modern go-getter. A day time hustler and nighttime writer. An avid talker and a silent listener. A couch lover and a crowd speaker.
I am who I am and despite what you may Want, I’ll always be who you’ll Need me to be.
Those ember months brought along a certain feeling of longing and wistfulness I couldn’t adequately describe in words; a longing for the ocean while standing at the shore, watching the waves crash at my foot but not daring to take any step further. Why? A question I couldn’t answer until you arrived, one sunny ember morning.
And a girl who never believed in cliches took one glance at you striding into the parlour with my father and I knew, you would play a big role in my life, which you did… until you couldn’t.
Your smile would light up a room and your charisma made everyone comfortable. You let me be the joker in public with the jokes you enriched me with in private. And you- with your arms which were nothing like those of the future I had imagined, were my home.
Meeting you was a coincidence, knowing was a privilege, and loving you- a blessing
“It’s not just the writing”, she said,
It’s the looking back at a formerly white page, now transformed into a confluence of rugged slanting black ink. Words, which were formerly a jumble in your head. And you stare at the piece of paper, wondering who on Earth could possible read that, jumble.
You crumble it up, dumping it at the back of your room, the back of your thoughts until…
yes, until, someday. Days, months, maybe even years. You find that crumbled piece of paper you had denounced into rubbish. A forgotten piece of work. Your eyes move across the page, word after word, line after line and everything you ever wrote down is exactly what you need to hear at the moment. And the words you had once upon a time sought refuge with cannot contain the bucket of emotion brewing up within you. What you once thought was rubbish, looks like a masterpiece. How time changes everything.
——“nothing is ever wasted”, she said, “so write today, not just for the present, because not everyone will appreciate it, but because someday, those same words might be exactly what you’d need to hear”.
I wasn’t always like this you know, she remarked softly, as if speaking to No one in particular.
I used to be fun, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I used to have friends, I even used to make jokes, laughable ones too.
It was great to be the joker and the life of the crowd and I reckon, I enjoyed the attraction and the favours it brought along. But eventually, I began to wonder if there was more to life than “that kind” of fun …
I wondered if I could be more. I wanted to be more.
More than just another pretty face, another name who gets passed around by with a laugh, another came and gone, another soul in a world filled with a billion of us. I wanted to be More…
It began with writing down all the things I thought I could do, the person I thought I could be, and- I never dropped the pen afterwards.
They say I have changed and I have lost who I used to be.
But in fact, I have evolved, I have found who I am supposed to be.
Somedays, words flow from the tip of my fingers, sprouting springs whose waters seem to last forever. somedays, the pool dries up, leaving no trace behind ever, of the presence of water. And I wonder, am I writer?
Somedays, tears form lumps in my throat, stuck, at the tentacle of falling out, transforming into anger on pages. Somedays, they descend in torrential downpour forming cavities upon my face and dampening blank pages. And I stare at the glistening droplets, am I a writer?
Somedays, memories come knocking on the door of present. I hold the door open, only slightly, letting it walk in a sequential pattern, straight through the ink across paper. Somedays, they come knocking down my door, and my hands hang helpless to their force. They form muddles around my mind, and I wonder, can I be a writer?
Somedays I edit, most days I erase, on occasion I delete the words I had previously placed. Somedays it takes everything within to choose to write, somedays writing chooses me, like I’ve been doing it all my life- it seems. And I wonder, what It takes to stake a claim on being a writer?
The above image is courtesy of The odyssey online.com
You are allowed to break down and unburden;
Weep from the depth of your soul,
when you hit rock bottom.
You- are allowed to fall apart.
Even rocks dissolve,
under extreme duress.
You are a human,
Intricately put together,
Cell by cell,
To absorb and reflect,
To feel and depict,
Ranges of emotions.
Your breaking is your transformation.
So grieve, weep, fall, break.
Take a good look
At the scattered pieces;
Watch the unwanted,
And pick yourself up,
Glue it all back together,
And watch your transformation begin.
There are days when even I can’t grasp the infinite thoughts floating in my head. I reach out for one but it slips, and on it goes… It is a confusing process really. Those are the days when I spend 24 hours in my pajamas, when I turn on all the bulbs in the house, open up the windows, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the light seeping in would lend some of its rays to my head because it had to be dark in there- I couldn’t understand a thing, couldn’t process my thoughts.
I go to my trusted friend coffee, because well, you can’t go wrong with caffeine right? Wrong… And that’s when confusion gives birth to irritation. An irritable mood whose two cures fail me miserably- coffee which refuses to stimulate my nerves to release those endorphins and sleep, which is no where to be found.
There are days when I didn’t think I’d make it, there would be days when I will think I won’t make it… But I will. I’m still here aren’t I?
At the end of the day, all we are left with is our thoughts. Friends leave for their various houses, family goes to sleep, the noise drowns out except for the faraway sounds of crashing waves; birds return to their nests.
My prayer for you, is in that moment when the silence gets too loud and there’s solitude about, you can embrace it for what it is. Breathe in, breathe out; feel your diaphragm expand and contract, hear the slight wheezing form your nostrils, listen for that far out sound of the waves and let it take you to beautiful places, places your mind deserves to go.
And I know it’s not an easy task, trust me I know, but I want you to believe. Believe that you can beat this, you can bear to dwell in the silence without that voice in your head nudging you that silence is something to be feared because it’s not. As long as the steering wheels are in your hands, it’s not.
So believe that you can and I bet you… You will.
The above post is in response to Writers quote Wednesday writing challenge hosted by SilverThreading and RonovanWrites. This week theme is “Believe“.
I think, the more you chase love, the more it gains energy and eludes you. The more you want it, the more it runs off. Love becomes this person who seems to enjoy the thrill of the chase more so than being caught; its mastered the art of evasion and just when you think, maybe, this is it- love has a way of getting one over you, it does so skillfully, taking with it pieces of you and leaving several irregular gaping holes.
And despite, despite the tumultuous ride and the many bumps on the road, we still chase love. We still get on the ride, despite knowing we may be left with even less pieces of ourselves than when we started. What does that say about love? What does that say about us? That we need it, maybe not as much as the oxygen we breathe, but still, as a necessity if we want to “live” not simply “exist”. And sometimes, this love that we’re chasing, isn’t hiding out with someone else; sometimes, this love is within ourselves and we’re simply driving through the wrong paths. I mean, how else can we fill the hole in someone else’s heart when ours is half filled yearning for us to fill it. And maybe, these are the lessons that love teaches us through its eventful journey.
The above image is courtesy of OrdinaryGirl