I feel like paper.
Paper, stretched tight, yet not supposed to tear.
I feel like a thin sheet of plastic. Holding together two ends of a chasm that is widening.
I feel like I could melt away, fall apart into microscopic pieces, self-combust, get swallowed up by the ground or in some other way escape into nonexistence.
I feel like a myriad of questions, questions and more questions. The lifeline on my hand looks like a big question mark. And answers are nowhere to be found.
I feel like cracked lips, salty and burning from an endless flow of tears. I feel like the kohl in my eyes, trying endlessly to hold on through a flood.
But I also feel like I'm going to get washed away anyway.
My mind is an endless swirl of black and grey. Light is playing tricks with me, hiding behind the worst of the dark.
Mesmerised, I try to find patterns in the black. The grey is smoke, drifting to who-knows-where, the grey is rainy clouds, about to pour on me.
The grey is your eyes, thought your eyes are a deep brown, the grey is your white-toothed smile.
Do you know how imperfect I am? Do you know my faults, my cracks, the heart I carry around in shreds?
Do you know how much you have to heal? How many questions you have to answer?
Answer me. I am the question.
Answer me. Complete my existence.
My mind and my heart feel empty. They are too full of torturous thoughts. Yet they're empty.
Fill them up. Make them look at each other and smile and agree with each other for once.
Make me dream. Show me the colours that are eluding me; make me see beyond the black and the mesmerising grey. Show me the brown of your eyes and the white gleam of your smile.
Show me a mirror that is not broken. Show me a perfect reflection of me, and make me believe that I am looking at myself.
Don't tell me that nobody's perfect, because that doesn't stop people expecting.
Pick up my pieces, glue them back together. I know they won't hold that way for long, but try. I may actually heal. I need to heal.
I need to breathe. I need to feel my own shallow heartbeat.
Love me. Know my pain and don't push me away; know my pain and show me the way. Tell me you'll be here, and don't break the promise.
Broken promises hurt
like paper cuts.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Questions
We all have 'em, don't we?
I don't know. There are just so many of them everywhere, discarded on the pavement along with broken hearts, suppressed in minds under the weight of ego, drifting in and out of dreams, and soon forgotten.
Leaking out of eyes full of tears, seen, unseen, ignored, acknowledged but left unanswered.
These are strange games we play, pretend to not have seen things we have, pretend to ourselves that we don't know answers that we do, afraid of facing truths, not wanting to lie.
How many of them do we actually want answered, though? Are we not afraid? That's why we leave them unasked, we let it go, though we are the stubborn people who always get what we actually want. We leave them there on the pavement, along with the shards we don't know how to fix, and assume that we can go down to the store and buy a new heart. One that doesn't have so many questions.
But we can't. We can't and we know it. Yet we leave it as a question: Can I?
So when we finally face the answer and know that our ignorance, or rather, pretence, has made us heartless in every sense of the word, we go back to the pavement and look for our heart, but of course they'd been swept away into the trash along with the questions we are, at last, ready to Google, and all we can find are the little leftover pieces which the big broom couldn't take away. And those little pieces are all we have left, splinters of someone we vaguely remember. Someone we used to be.
Don't hide your questions; don't throw them out of the window of your car. They don't pollute anything but your heart, even after you think you've let go of them. Let them take the window seat. Be curious, get your answers; there'll be nothing left to regret, because asnwers can prick but questions....questions leave scars.
Dream and hope, because it shows you how to live.
Question and answer, because they teach you everything.
Smile and cry...for one is incomplete without the other.
I don't know. There are just so many of them everywhere, discarded on the pavement along with broken hearts, suppressed in minds under the weight of ego, drifting in and out of dreams, and soon forgotten.
Leaking out of eyes full of tears, seen, unseen, ignored, acknowledged but left unanswered.
These are strange games we play, pretend to not have seen things we have, pretend to ourselves that we don't know answers that we do, afraid of facing truths, not wanting to lie.
How many of them do we actually want answered, though? Are we not afraid? That's why we leave them unasked, we let it go, though we are the stubborn people who always get what we actually want. We leave them there on the pavement, along with the shards we don't know how to fix, and assume that we can go down to the store and buy a new heart. One that doesn't have so many questions.
But we can't. We can't and we know it. Yet we leave it as a question: Can I?
So when we finally face the answer and know that our ignorance, or rather, pretence, has made us heartless in every sense of the word, we go back to the pavement and look for our heart, but of course they'd been swept away into the trash along with the questions we are, at last, ready to Google, and all we can find are the little leftover pieces which the big broom couldn't take away. And those little pieces are all we have left, splinters of someone we vaguely remember. Someone we used to be.
Don't hide your questions; don't throw them out of the window of your car. They don't pollute anything but your heart, even after you think you've let go of them. Let them take the window seat. Be curious, get your answers; there'll be nothing left to regret, because asnwers can prick but questions....questions leave scars.
Dream and hope, because it shows you how to live.
Question and answer, because they teach you everything.
Smile and cry...for one is incomplete without the other.
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