Tear it apart!
Take my heart and tear it away.
It is full of sham, anyway.
Break it into pieces.
Bash it hard with no kindness.
Wreck the pretence.
Crack the hypocrisy,
And wash away the vanity.
For my heart is the temple,
The centre of my haven.
O tear my heart apart,
And cleanse it away!
“Can we have an early dinner?” She read the text and laughed hysterically to herself. A simple coffee invitation has now become a dinner request. The forms of social structures always baffle her. It is not that she is anti-social, but it is the weird conundrum of understanding the unwritten rules of societal signals. While the sudden dinner request rummages through her head, she reminded herself that she is an idiot in this kind of situation. And she replied, a nonchalant ‘alright.’
She considered calling her girlfriend. But she didn’t know what she would ask or say. Undecided whether to ask or talk about it, she fell back into her tasks. Another text arrived saying ‘Where?’. She nudged her shoulders and replied, ‘Your choice.’ Being the “gentleman” he is, he suggested a place at his convenience. Though she hates the place he suggested, she conceded to her fate since she has no alternate preference. Again, she felt like an idiot.
After a few minutes, she left the office. And she could not help but wonder what on earth she would talk about. Her smile is a charm, and her laughter hides her hypocrisy well. Along with being an idiot, she reminded herself she is a typical hypocrite. Then, she laughed at her remark thinking this is probably an overly negative self-perception. But does it matter? She left the question stale and continued to focus on her steps.
As the smooth jazz ran through her AirPods, she felt a sudden serene despite the crowd of the city. And she thought to herself how much she would hate it if this is a date. The relentless interrogation, the awkward small talk, the weird side glance of the strangers, and not to forget the terror of being herself exhausted her before it even began. But then again, who cares? How weird could it get?!
She was interrupted by this train of thought by a phone call. “I am almost there,” she replied trying to sound normal as much as possible. He couldn’t wait for her at the venue alone. He wanted to be there simultaneously with her. ‘ugh, how clingy are you?!’ She thought to herself. She hugged him awkwardly with a painted smile as she got to where he was standing. ‘Perhaps, there is a chance. A chance I would have a smart or real conversation. Huh?! Real positivity!’ She gave herself a pat for being hopeful.
She indeed loves a real conversation. Or a thoughtful talk. Well-versed opinions and if possible academically inclined topics. But the chance of people who want to indulge in a good chat, let alone an hour-long conversation has become a mighty coincidence. In any case, she ruffled her sarcastic notes to keep becoming the normal idiot person she is.
Starting from the moment they met, he is incessantly talking. She is trying to keep up with the talk with a simple ‘hmm’ and agreeing nods. He doesn’t seem to care whether she listens or not. He is telling her about an awkward semantics he has heard in the afternoon. He seems to be annoyed awfully a lot with the minor inconvenience. Or he is using hyperbole to add relevance to what he was saying. She just kept laughing and nodding throughout the way.
While they are sitting, he is telling her how he orders his meal, his eating habit…oh, she is drowning. ‘How am I gonna keep up with this?’ She silently whimpered.
“So, what do you want to eat?” he glanced in her direction.
“Anything that might interest you. I am not much of a food person.” She was a bit loud. Or the place was quiet. Or she is nervous. Who can tell at this point?
After the waiter took their order and left, “We are watching Fast X this weekend!” said he, decided and bold.
“Oh good, the art of flying cars!” said she rolling her eyes. She immediately resented her reply thinking that means she would have to talk about her movie preferences. And she did, both, regretted and talked about her bewildering choices. He cut her off quickly with how he relates the characters with his friends or the people he knows. ‘Such a good listener,’ she rolled her inner eyes to herself.
Then, sets in the awkward silence. She doesn’t seem to salvage the sudden death of the conversation. She couldn’t think of a single common thing to both of them. They are not on different pages. They were just in different books. She felt, while all the other people are in a normal-paced time continuum, the time has slowed only for them. In a very bad way, though.
A moment later (maybe seconds), he started confessing about his job. Then and now. She suddenly knew he was trying to impress her with whatever achievement he could scrap on. Maybe he was successful, but she did not get why that should concern her. Perhaps, this is because of the common idiosyncrasy she doesn’t get. Who can say?!
“Do you like walks?” he inquired. She nodded yes and before opening her mouth he was planning the walks they could take together. And she grinned slightly. For a moment, she felt like a doll sitting there picture-perfect. She is just clamoring over his random comments and insights. ‘Ugh, I hate myself,’ she said to herself.
He is, now, talking about his travels. The strange strangers he has encountered. Normally, she would find this interesting or funny. But, somehow, this doesn’t feel as such. She kept playing the rhythms of her head with her fingers. She is struggling to pay attention. ‘Why do people find these experiences interesting?’ asked her inner voice. ‘whatever this is,’ it smirked.
The tedious conversation went on and on for about an hour or so. She, at some point, remarked that talking incessantly is entirely unimportant. He seemed to agree with her, yet continued to feel the silence with his unending chatter. The more they stayed together, the more the conversation went stale. And the more he was trying to tell her he understood what she was saying better than her, the more appalled she was by his strong assumption. She twitched her face once or twice with the strange conclusions. But she conceded to keep herself rather quiet. And she was convinced this was not a date, at least not for her.
While saying their farewell, she decided this would be the last time they hang out. ‘It is about to end,’ she sighed deeply. But then, to her surprise, he said he had the most fun. She stared at him confused and said, “Really?”. He gave her an assured yes. She remarked the sarcastic, “Oh great. I am glad,” and went into the crowd. And she thought, ‘Maybe I was not the idiot. He was. And is an idiot. Maybe this was a date with an idiot!’
For decades, we humans were searching for extraterrestrial organisms who are not our own kind. The intrigue of this quest is unknown for certain. Nor do we have the slightest idea what they would look like if they were ever true. Yes, there might be scanty evidence for our unfulfilled sketches of these terrifying beings. But ‘fact’ is not the center of this illusion or imagination we have concocted. Apparently, as reflected in multiple movies and narrations, these beings are scary, ugly, and entirely devoid of logic and emotion. And they are coming to colonize and rule our world. In any case, we have heard these so many times it is getting old now. Or sounds like the fairy tales we are accustomed to.
Here is a thought, though. We are scared of whatever type of creature would land on Earth mainly because we are assuming they are devoid of any logic or emotion. And because of that it wouldn’t be possible for us to reason with them or get their kindness (pity) to preserve our life on this planet. But in reality, aren’t we doing all that to ourselves already? Aren’t we becoming so detached from our emotions from time to time? In this age of sarcasm, are we ever true to our feelings? Aren’t we suffering from a famish of power over the powerless?
I, sometimes, wonder if the entire universe has become the portrait of Dorian Gray in the classic work of Oscar Wilde. In the book, the handsome, young Dorian was painted to have a portrait of his own. Yet, time after time, as Dorian was getting old, and his sins piled up, the painting replaced itself with a monster version. With time Dorian turned away from innocence and kindness to become cruel and brute. With time our planet is losing kindness for the uncanny selfishness with the added value of violence. The painting may seem the same after all. But the truth is, we have defaced from what we were to what we are now.
Over the years, vulnerability has faded. Revealing true emotions has become a shameful activity. We have, now, descended into the pit of madness where everyone is supposed to pretend to be happy. Or lose their mind while trying. Our social affiliations are on the brink of disappearance. We have alienated ourselves from our own kinds with no enemy bellowing us to do it. Individualism reigns in our realm firmly. It seems like the only thing we share is the collective traumas we have induced on each other. Yet, not to deal with them together, but to brim over them all alone in despair.
In my opinion, it is safe to say the wait is over. The aliens are already here. We haven’t grown horns on our skulls or started to have sharper teeth. But we have convoluted ourselves into something else we cannot even begin to understand. “I don’t even know myself,” has become the mantra of our lives. Self-awareness and the obsession to have self-awareness have led us astray to the edge we do not know. Consciousness is an ache we would like to distract ourselves from. Rationalism has become a manipulating mechanism to gain the kind of validation we would like to hear. Distractions from self, thoughts, and any sort of emotion are the only way to give us mental repose. No wonder, we cannot know or recognize ourselves. Are we ever going to face our consciousness sober with no distractions?
Have I been so vulnerable myself, I would have held the moral high ground to lecture every reader to do this and that. But dear reader that would be the worst hypocrisy of all.
Whenever I think about the things I have lost, imagined or real, I realize the true loss I have suffered from is my vulnerability itself. I cannot spare a fair share of aches or excitements in my life. Not so many people would, these days.
While waiting for exotic beings that might endanger our life on this planet, we have become eccentric beings of our own kind. We are filled with too many altercations, our perfect portrait has become completely defaced. Without even realizing it, we have conquered our own planet to become the aliens. Perhaps, it is time for us to be human once again. To learn what it means to be a human. And abandon ourselves from the grotesque figure we have become.
If you are still wondering to know what an alien would look like, though, you only have to stand in front of a mirror. That figure you see standing is the one you have been waiting to see.
So it happens,
It doesn’t go your way, sometimes.
Almost always.
For every step you progress,
There’s a step or two in reverse.
But then, here you are.
With all that you are.
Unlocking the bizarre.
Buffering the despair.
Brewing and wondering.
Terrified of ever trying.
Trying without faltering.
Or entirely breaking.
Here goes another one.
A day of being a human.
Constantly sticking.
Continously existing.
So it happens,
And you reminiscence
How it become what has become,
Only for you to succumb
That too shall pass
This, too, will press
And force you to embrace
The truths of our lives.
Both the perks
And the nightmares.
If life is a dream within a dream,
Then, it is ridiculous
To dream in a dream within a dream.
If one cannot tear apart the real
From a dream,
One must stop dwelling
In, yet, another dreaming
And float in the real realm.
But, if one must dream,
In this escaped realm,
Then, create the illusion
Of a world of perfection
In your own version.
Allude yourself to illusion
In a world full of dreams.
If I killed myself today,
I wouldn’t be alive tomorrow, right?
For living is an art
Dying must be a fine craft.
But, if I didn’t know how to live,
How would I know how to die?
If I were to kill myself now,
Would I be able to breathe later?
Knowing that I have held my breath for a while,
My last sigh should falter through my soul.
But, if I didn’t know how to breathe now,
How will I give out my last sigh?
If I were to live in the now,
Would I die in my past?
If I were to die in my memories,
Would I live in my present?
If I killed all the ifs,
Would I finally get my respite?
If I lie to love life,
Could I start to hate death?
If I stopped asking questions,
Would I begin to live?
Or would I start to die?
If I were to kill myself today,
I wouldn’t be alive tomorrow, right?
I borrowed my words,
I won’t lie or pretend.
I learned all of them.
None were mine.
All were stolen.
And each was taken,
From/by someone.
Yet, I feel like they are my own.
Only mine.
With how they understand,
The rough road in my head.
The scars of my soul.
And the broken cracks of my heart.
So, whenever they are scribbled,
Every time they are crafted,
I feel more and more entangled
With my borrowed, yet my own words.
Vainly, I followed the scent of life.
I traced the meaning of existence.
I broiled in the sea of freedom
To exploit the exempt from chains.
Yet, all was in vain.
For my stoned soul,
And my irretrievably lost self,
I recite my sad verses.
I sigh in sheer darkness
The loss and the burns
Of whatever was there
Imagined or realized.
For all the failed attempts
Of trying to speculate
The meaning of life,
I laid off the strife,
And I send myself off,
To the lighthouse at the reef.
To rotate and revolve
The constant lights
On all stumbles and the loss.
Perhaps, in a hope
To see the dark knots
With the broad lights.
[Maybe I’m hiding.
Or else, denying.
All the failures
And the trials.
Yet, in my lighthouse,
All is in peace.
In absolute silence.]
So I would say…
All was in vain.
All in mere insanity.
All for nothing.
And all for none!
With all the rages
And the riots in my head,
I burnt the bridges.
I burnt them all.
With all the overthinking I mastered over the years,
And the words I have gathered,
I verbally exploded.
I said it all.
Unhinged and unfiltered.
With all the quirks I have left,
The tiny swords I crafted,
I poked my own heart,
To let the poison out,
To squirt the venom
And to banish all bad.
I burnt all the bridges.
I cut all the ties.
Standing on the tower of ashes,
I sing the hymns of heroes,
The songs of the gods.
In a whim of my boldness.
My heart aches
For the mediocre heartbeats
It creates.
For the relentless noise
It jumbles and hassles.
My body loathes
The second Monday
More than it detests
The real Monday.
My head mourns
The throbbing aches
My face is half asleep
Raving in the deep.
Yet, my heart unceasingly beats.
Riveting in loud voices.
“I am alive!” It yells.
“You’re alive,” it reminds.
And it aches.
Mere existence aches.
Void survival echoes.
And life continues.
Life goes on.
“I detest that I live far far away from the sea. I always want to feel the calm sea breeze across the contours of my face. And I live in the city, anyway. No lakes or seas whatsoever.” She was cut off the moment she took a breath between her words.
“You know where we are right now, Jane?” She peeked through her glasses to glance at her. They are back to reality.
“Yes, Doctor. I know I am in a hospital.”
“Wonderful,” Sylvia replied. “I want you to tell me the story you mentioned last time. Can you do that for me?” Her sincere voice was not that sincere with the look she keeps giving her. It has been 2 months and she feels like she has gotten nowhere with her therapy. It was on March 4 she was nudged to visit the clinic for an afternoon and her surprise visit was changed into an admission. Before she knew it she was in a hospital with the likes of her. And today is May 5th.
“So, tell me, Jane. Why do you feel like you got two options only?” Sylvia insisted. She is the senior psychiatrist and she is not friendly at all. She reminds her of her mother to some extent. But she never consciously admitted that fact. Sylvia cleared her throat to make Jane start talking.
“Yeah. I remember what I said. But you know…” she hesitated. Sylvia drops the paper on the table to give her the common guidelines on how this would work. This time Jane cleared her throat and started to spill her gut. At least she pretended to.
“I know. I know how this works. You don’t have to remind me every time. It is just … I feel like I am trapped. My ultimate choices are either to be mad or broken. I don’t want to be considered mad. That is loud and noticeable to everyone else. Nor do I want to be broken. I don’t want to feel the cracks in my life with every step I am taking. More importantly, I don’t wish to be concealed every moment of the day as if I am made of eggshells. But the other choice is not better either. Look at Sarah, my roommate here. She is mad. And I am her only friend. I am the only person she talks to. Everybody seems to be afraid of her. I don’t want to become her. I don’t want to be mad.” Jane pressed her hands on both sides of her head to make the headache stop. She knows it doesn’t work. But it never stopped her from doing it. She feels like she can catch her overflowing thoughts with that simple act. As if that would ever work. Suddenly she scoffs and looked in Sylvia’s direction. But Sylvia said nothing except push her spectacles back to their places.
Jane kept staring at the ugly grey wall for full two minutes. And she started talking again. “Look, I am not saying this is just for me. I think the whole world is trapped in some time capsule. Maybe we are living in some weird simulation. But I look at everyone and I see their brokenness written all over their faces. Some cover it with humor. Others conceal it with productivity. And the rest have some good denial stories to bury the pain. And the mad, the openly mad are either yelling on the streets or locked out in a madhouse.” She giggled after she called it a madhouse.
Sylvia explained how she must stop calling it that. But Jane wondered if Sylvia was explaining this to make herself feel better. Who would like to work in a madhouse, anyway?!
“Go on,” said Sylvia.
“I think that has covered it all. I don’t think there is another way to exist in this world. You keep telling me that I will get better,” she started pulling her sleeves down while she crosses her legs on the chair. It was getting late. The sun is setting and she wanted to get back to her bed so badly.
“So, you don’t think you will be healed? Is that it?” The doctor called back her attention again.
“What is healing, anyway? You just survive this world until you cannot. Why do I have to drive myself crazy for something hypothetical? Something which doesn’t exist? Are you healed? Are you completely fine? Am I going to be you when this is over?” She was raising her voice now.
Sylvia ceased taking her notes and looked her in the eyes. She knew she hated that. Jane hated to be recognized as an alive person. She felt more dead and unnoticed in the entire universe. But Sylvia didn’t break eye contact. She kept looking at her.
“I cannot take this anymore!” She is yelling now. “You have to let me out of here. I can’t do this. You are wasting your time and you know it. Look, you can help Sarah or that other girl. Or someone else. Just not me. You have not failed. I am just tired and I am making you waste your time over a lost case.” Her voice broke. But she did not cry. Deep down, she believed in what she just said. She knew that she was a lost cause.
“Is that why you tried to kill yourself for the 4th time?” Sylvia finally uttered the elephant in the room.
“I was hoping we would not talk about that today,” Jane said half smiling.
“Why are you smiling? That is not remotely funny.” Sylvia seemed cross now. Jane knew she had heard about the recent attempt and that was why she was attempting to fill the conversation with a jargon.
“Go on, let us talk about that. You think you’re trapped and you don’t have a choice. So, you should be punished with death? Is that it? Oh, and you’re the justifier? Let us talk about that, shall we?” Her attuned voice is weirdly irritating. She wished she was yelling at her. Or blaming her for the unspeakable deed. But she suddenly laughs and started talking.
“Wait, why do we feel like death is the unspeakable topic?” Jane continued. “As if it is sacred. I can talk about death. I am not scared of it.”
“I don’t want you to romanticize the idea as if it gives your life a purpose,” Sylvia said for the hundredth time.
“But if you think about it, it does. Truly. Do you know how many people change their lives when they know the estimated date they have left to live on? Do you know how death is a true motivation for anything we do? Do you ever wonder that we are dying more than we are living?”
“Okay. Okay. You know what I want you to talk about. I want you to tell me how it felt.” Sylvia sounded a little irritated this time. Her monotonous voice was out of sorts.
“Surviving it is not fun at all. I am dreading it. As I am dreading this conversation right now.” Jane continued to smile.
“Look, Jane. I know it has been hard to stay in this institution. But if you keep doing this, you know I can’t let you go. Most importantly, there is nothing called beyond help. You are not beyond help. Just let us help you. You know you can be helped.”
Jane swallowed a sob at that sentence. Sylvia kept muttering the usual reprimands about life. And her medications. But she was zoned out in her tiny universe. And her head was buzzing with strange voices telling her how she can masterfully escape this place. For now, she has given up on the idea of killing herself. It seemed far-fetched. 4th time was not the charm. At all.
“Jane…Jane…”Sylvia almost touched her with her pen.
“Yeah, I am listening.” She cleared her throat again.
“Even though the so-called ultimatum exists, you can always create your third option. The key is all about managing it. Don’t let either your brokenness or your madness overflow over you. Madness can be beautiful, too. Brokenness can sprout. It is all about managing it. And that is what we are trying to do, here.”
“Yes, doctor.” She quietly muttered. She just wanted it to be over.
“Good, I think we can go on from here next time. Can you promise you will take your meds in front of the nurses?”
“Yes, as long as they don’t bother me with their history taking day and night. I won’t make progress within 12 hours, we all know that!”
“I will tell them not to bother you with that. Anything else?”
“Yes, don’t do rounds on me either. I am not a prize stock to be looked at. I am just depressed. I won’t talk about it in front of ten people anyway.”
“That was just last week. We heard from the other patients, too. It won’t happen again.”
“Good, then.”
“So I shall see you next Thursday?” Sylvia marked her calendar.
“Sure, where else shall I go anyway?”
“Jane!”
“I am kidding. I hope you will tell me about that ultimate healing state, though. Not the medical jargon. Just your thoughts. Off the record, if you want,” she covered her mouth slightly saying the last sentence as if it is a secret.
“If you promise to keep writing,” Sylvia smiled.
Jane rolled her eyes and left the exam room with her head bowed and her hoody covering half her face. She crossed the tiny bridge to her room and hid herself in the bed until the urge to yell that she prefers to be mad than broken passed. “1…” deep sigh. “2…” deeper. “and 3” It was gone and her earphone was loud enough to drown the voices in her head.
Oh my dear, please come by,
Let us sip and sway,
Till we tire and sigh.
Run, cross the field
Before the day ends
We shall drown our sorrow
In the desolate meadow.
Come, make haste,
Do not be late.
The sour of the day,
Cannot stand in our way.
Together, we feast in the hey,
Denying the mist ,
While envisioning the ray.
We drown. And drown.
And then we float,
To the heights and the beyond.
No, this is not a folly.
Nor a waste of a night.
The toils won’t abandon.
The work shall remain.
Yet, before the new day comes,
We shall drown the sad
With the feast of the vine.
Oh my dear, please come by,
Let us sip and sway,
Till we tire and sigh.
I would’ve poured my heart out
But who would want to see my broken heart?
My bare, scarred, and marred heart?
I would’ve said it all
But who wants to hear the unending rants?
Who shall be interested in naked minds?
I would’ve done it all.
But who likes a do it all?
A know it all?
I would’ve would have it.
But I didn’t. And I shan’t.
Maybe I’m lazy.
Or too busy.
What could’ve been,
Or would have been,
Might have been better.
Or worse.
It is all uncertain.
And that’s a might.
I cleanse my defied soul,
Me defamed, poor, strunged self.
I rinse it on the altar
To edify the blemishes
To brighten the stained smile,
To smooth out the contours
Of my heart, soul, and face.
I cleanse the burnt ashes
Of the days I have burnt,
I rinse my frights,
My worst nightmares,
My raging angst
With a mere survival.
And now I’m freed.
I cleansed. I rinsed.
And I am free.
From the depths of betrayed trust,
Unbecoming fright
Of feeling left out,
Unloved and abandoned,
My cynic heart utters
The pessimic fret,
The sarcastic tunes,
And the unending jokes.
My wounded heart is plagued
In regrets and resents
For ever believing
And confiding
In anyone else, but not I.
And it sighs
A deep, sad sigh
Brewing a cynic chime.
My beckoned heart is antagonized,
For being a human once,
For uncomplicated existence,
For having a finesse,
Unyielding passion for living.
Now I sing along
The cynic mantras.
I chant the the rues
And overflowing despises.
Just to flaunt the distance,
The miles I walked
From the rest of the world,
And my old self.
Unabridged Manuscripts 