In an attempt to exist,
And an occasional living,
I am holding my breath.
Receding to my brace,
Flailing to my loci of reality,
I’m holding my breath.
Dearly. Closely.
Warming my being incessantly.
And when I breathe,
I see the holding fading,
The fog unveiling,
My life unfolding.
Live!
Just live, sometimes.
If not, always.
In death, we find
The meaning of life, engraved.
But it’s in life –
We find the whimsy of the dread,
The precipice of a grandeur,
A cruise of pain,
The path to peace,
If not, joy.
In whispers and sighs,
Within the breeze of the days,
The current raves.
Life, itself, survives.
Why, then, not live?
If not always,
Just sometimes.
We are the damned souls. The ferociously judged. The slightly heard. But faced the world for the full wrath.
The repercussions of our mere existence can never be avoided. For us, living is the hell we have to be drenched in. Life is what we have stumbled upon to know what it reckons. If we had died, we could have had a better hell. Perhaps. But who is to say?
For the great minds we possess, we have been judged. For thinking the way we think, we have been crucified. For the world is devoid of senses, humanity, and reality, we have been cursed. Hushed to be subdued. We are damned for outliving the world through our minds. We are damned for our heightened senses of pain. For the world crisps our agony to atone us for the eccentricity we have unlocked. For the socially constructed bricks, we have spattered into pieces. Our minds might not be the greatest treasuries, but the world banned the likes of us. Damned us to mediocrity and relishes of the superficials.
For the bitter lashes we have received, we are doomed to be an apostate. An exile from life. Our souls soaked the worst of fates, the rages of the rules we live by. If pain scorched us to become what we have become, why are we still damned? Why are we being flogged for the ache we have endured? All we asked was to deserve love, kindness, and patience. But we have succumbed a damnation for what we are.
For the whims of life we have perceived, we have been damned. For the glitters of the world we have abandoned, we have been stricken harsh. For the full darkness we have imbibed, we have been disavowed of the light we need. Our transgression is the sadness we felt. Our fault was the agitation we endured. The panics we have overcome.
What am I saying? Am I meant to judge the world? Curse my way out of life? Blaming others for the faults of my own? Embellishing my pain evermore? Most definitely not.
Yet, this is a sheer wonder. A trial of life for the verdict of pain in our lives. Does the world have a place for the sad and bruised? Are we meant to be caressed for the scars we have plunged on ourselves? Are we to be treated nicely for the share of trauma we have absorbed? Is there a place in the world for the damned and bruised? If we can’t overcome /outlive our pain, do we even have a chance to survive?
Within the whelms of agony, we breach our shields. And we receive the grotesque parcels of existing. But when we find each other, within the depth of our pain, our hearts rhyme. Perhaps, the world is for the fools. But within the strings of our aches, we exist, too. Damned to life, but still, we exist!
I am awake. Again.
To roll my boulder.
As high as further.
Only to roll it back down,
To the depth of the cavern.
And sometimes,
I push my boulder,
So far, far away,
It skips a beat in bounce.
Reaching the pit,
In fierce.
And in the middle of the night,
I dig myself out,
From the depths of the pit,
Only to raise myself to the peak,
Up, up on the top.
So, yes. I am awake.
Again.
Raising from the drain.
The exhaustion.
The deep pit.
To raise my boulder higher,
As high as further,
To dig my pit deeper.
A scar is born
Out of an apthy torn.
A numbness, unfolding,
A coldness, unyielding.
In a bold attempt of fighting the cold,
Unwinding the endless knot,
Follows the thread of the cut.
The surge.
The impulse.
Satisfied. And gratified.
The appeased god of numbness,
Engulf the pain of existentence.
Fries the coldness,
Only to enrich with warmth.
Igniting pain, spreading ache
All over the dead.
Indifference is disarmed.
A wound is invited.
For twinging pain is alarmed.
A wave of healing is inflicted.
Leaving one to wonder,
If only healing was painless,
Or granted.
Pain thrives while healing sprouts,
Wounds thicken.
Agony is sown.
And, a scar is born.
Marking the pain.
Declaring the mend.
All is well,
Until numbness swell,
The looping cycle resets.
The wheel of scars –
Is completed.
Within the blazing fire,
Crackling and hissing afar,
Melting and bending window panes in my sight,
Cracking of the walls all around,
Suffocated by a mist of smoke,
I’m sitting in a chair.
Amidst a burning house,
Lively, actively burning house.
Has it not been for the flames,
I would have run.
I suppose.
Has it not been for the smoke,
I would have screamed.
Maybe.
Has it not been for the locked door,
I would have escaped.
Probably.
Has it not been for my smoked ego,
Or wounded hypocrisy,
I would have screamed
Of the top of my lungs.
I think.
If I were not busy falling apart,
I would have stood and walked.
If it wasn’t the blazing fire all year round,
I would have tried to put it out.
Yet,
The panic of living in a burning house,
The exhilaration of fading in the ashes,
The fright of being muffled by the smoke,
The forlorn of asking for help,
Hazed out in the abyss,
Of a burning bliss.
I live in a burning house.
Till the fire absorbs,
I, myself, and my chair.
Catch my drift if you can.
If you can keep up, anyways.
The moment I start to cease
The day. The night. My cruise.
It floats.
Drift away from my grip.
Catch my thoughts if you can.
My very dispersed bits.
The distorted truths
I craft in my head.
Keep up if you can.
Because I can’t.
Catch me while I’m falling.
Keep me up when I’m drifting.
Wake me while I’m hazing,
For my thoughts are dispersed.
And my days are not seized.
I remember the first day I ran on a treadmill. It was a Tuesday afternoon in the gym. I signed up the day before to be more active or something like that. And of course, after a little warm-up, the trainer led me to the treadmill. What can I say?! It was a thrilling experience. The lane beneath my feet kept sliding so fast I barely could breathe or keep up with it. Yet, I didn’t fall. I stumbled a little and I kept going at it. And I sometimes wonder if life is just a non-ending treadmill.
Life has been an adventurous game for me. Not in the way some people say it. I didn’t live vicariously through outdoor experiences like that of skydiving or paragliding. None of the sorts where I would have a surge of adrenaline. But in a way, I had to adjust and readjust too many times. Yes, I feel out of place or trapped in a glass box where I can see unto my life but never experience it. But in the gliding reality of my life, I keep wondering if the world would ever be enough for the slow runners on the giant treadmill.
So, I wonder;
Is the world truly accommodating for the slow runners? For pessimists? The non-believers? The passives? The readers? The academicians? The non-influencers? The invisible ones? The list is unending.
Do not misconstrue these ideas. I am not all of those things, of course. I just keep wondering if the world is truly a home for the thinkers who sit over an idea for a decade or more. The academicians who romanticize theoretical flares even when they don’t provide a comprehensive answer. Is the world accommodating for those who are more intrigued by books rather than 30-second videos? What are the fates of the non-believers? Those who do not get moved by the idea that tomorrow is better? In a way, everybody knows tomorrow is a little bit worse than today. But is the world really accommodating to those who reflect this out loud? Or am I just blinded by the apocalypse fetish Freud mentioned? Is it wrong to be a pessimist? Or is it one of those things where the majority wins?
I do not suppose no one has full answers to any of the questions. Neither am I trying to answer them all. One thing remains unanswered though. The unquenched thirst for authenticity! Value on and in itself! Beyond the unending treadmill, isn’t there something worth better? That can be valued as best? Can you find your true self in a rushed and paced set of worlds? Or in a serene and quieter setting? In a world where value is not valued anymore, where does value lie? Where do I find it? Everywhere or nowhere?
It’s life after all, they say.
It happens in black and white, they claim.
But also, they refrain.
For some, it happens in colours.
For others, life fades within the shades.
However,
If life were to reflect
The turmoil and infarcts,
If it was to pertain the illness,
To caricature the abyss,
Then, life must be
A li’l bit of black and white.
If life is all about the goods and the bads,
The wrongs and the rights,
Happening between the oscillations,
On the scale of the extremes,
Then, life is indeed
A li’l bit of black and white.
If life is in the beyond,
Beyond the colour bound,
Neither in the reflection,
Nor in the absorption,
Life, then, must be a cohesion
Of colours and shades.
After all, it’s life.
Isn’t it?
It’s never bound.
Yet, it hounds.
“Hello. My name is Mrs. Krementz, and I am your obituarist,” said an old sinister lady as she walked to my home. I have been on my bed the entire morning waiting to see what kind of person would come and knock at my door. As it turns out, they sent someone who is as old as me except for her attire, her precision of words, and her sharp, confident look.
‘Good God, why am I impressed with my obituarist?!’ I thought. But I kept walking my guest to my living room. She is awfully quiet. And her face couldn’t say anything I might configure.
“You must…”I cleared my throat halfway. I haven’t said a word since this morning and my throat was half closed. She only glanced at me and she opened her bag. I cleared my throat again and asked if she was thirsty.
“Water is fine,” she said.
“So, you are an obituarist. How does it really work? You know…do you find your job a little sad?” I do not know what I am talking about. I am just trying to make a conversation because I am terrified of the questions she might be asking me next. I don’t know why I am terrified though.
“It is okay. I don’t find it sad. I just write it.” Mrs. Krementz replied.
I find myself rolling my eyes in front of my water container. Then I get back to the room with a handful of glasses and snacks.
“I have to know your full name for the form. What is your last name, Ms. Jane?”
“Oh, don’t have one. I only use my first name. Just Jane. Not a miss, too.”
I thought she gave me an odd gaze for a minute. Perhaps, I am imagining it. She is filling out her forms. I can see her excellent penmanship from my chair. To keep myself from odd imaginations and a weird urge to ask about her life I kept cracking my snacks. She seems unbothered.
She kept filling out the forms while asking about my major identifiers as a person who occupies a space on this planet. I could hear myself sigh, but I answered her questions accordingly.
“So, Ms….ehmm…Jane. What sort of tales would you like us to tell when the inevitable finally happens?”, asked she. Her eyes are devoid of emotion or any information I can speculate from.
“Do you think death is the uncanny fate to human beings?”, I asked.
“No, I think death is a gift to the human population. I think it is a gift to life. Imagine if we were going to live infinitely?!” She said it at once. For a moment, I felt like she did not intend to say anything. But I love this game. I wanted to push her to the edge to tell me how her life is. I wanted to hear what people say to their obituarists.
“So, Jane…”.
“Yes.”
“I would rather not repeat myself. Tell me what you want people to read about after you die.” She sounded frustrated.
“I don’t know. I was wondering if you could tell me what other people usually say.” I said bleakly.
“They usually confess to me. Even though I don’t ask them anything. They prattle about what they regret in life. Or the places they haven’t visited. They usually talk about their hopes and dreams in life, you know.” She drifted off into her memory.
“Have you ever wondered what you would say if somebody were holding a gun to your head?” I asked.
“I suppose not.” She answered calmly. “I think about death a lot more awful than I would like to admit. It is my job after all. But I never thought I would die suddenly with a bullet. I guess the immediacy and the nearness of death might illicit a natural panic reaction for a second. Just for a minute. Not a while longer than that.”
The room went quiet after that. She kept poking her notebook. I kept rocking on my chair wondering what she was thinking.
“I remember this guy,” she went on. “He called me to his house just like you did. And he started narrating his hopes and dreams, his biggest mistakes in life, all the chances he did not take in his life…and so on. He was truly miserable. And he went on and said the saddest part of it is I am not resolved yet. I still think I could make sense out of it, he said. For a moment, I pitied him. For another moment, I envied him. And then I asked him where he sought out his hopes from. He stared into my eyes and said hope is the only thing I got. Then, I told him that was what brought him down in the first place. I can hear his confusion growing strong. You have set your standards so high, even death or the terror of death cannot bring you down to the face of reality, I said to him.”
All of a sudden, she stopped talking. She sat up straight and asked, “So Jane, what would you say to the person who is holding a gun to your head?”
“I …I…” She gave me a ‘spit it out already’ look. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to confide in her. For a moment, I felt like she was my oldest friend. I suddenly got up from my chair and asked if she wanted more tea, or a wine perhaps. She nodded yes for the wine and I bought myself a few more seconds to answer my own questions.
When I got back to the room, I saw her waiting for my reply. And I wondered if she were a little bit agitated to hear what I would say. I smirked at myself for thinking I could impress this lady and went on pouring the wine.
“If a gun was pointed at my head,” I went on, “I want to be afraid and maybe beg a little. But I don’t suppose I would do that. I wouldn’t mind dying a year from now or today. You know…” I am looking at her while I am taking a sip. She does not seem impressed or bored. She was just unbothered.
“Do you mind listening to music?” I inquired to break the silence. She nodded yes. But she cleared her throat louder this time and said “Look Ms. Jane…can you just tell me what you want to say in your obituary?” She looked half-irritated, half-relieved.
“Yeah. I am sorry I just don’t know where to start or what to say. Do you have your own notes ready for your obituary? Or your epitaph?”
She, then, got up and started walking directly to the music collection. ‘Hmm..she is not irritated,’ I wondered. She seemed relaxed and at ease.
“I had so many things in mind. I wanted to sound ordinary at times. I wanted to sound exceptional as well. I wanted to absolve the poetic justice of life and death in myself. I even wondered if love could be the biggest force. And then I realized there is a middle ground for everything. I felt ashamed for the times I was foolish and stupid. I felt a little bit boastful for being smart. But it keeps…” she sighed deeply and went on “circling back into something I cannot sum up. It’s not just one thing. It is a little bit of everything and a whole lot of nothing. And it keeps folding me into parts and pieces,” she suddenly stopped talking. Yet, I felt all the words she uttered to my core.
“So,” she sat back on the couch “Jane, tell me.”
“I am not sure what I want to tell you, to be honest. Life keeps happening to me.” I said it more intensely than I would like. “I am not actively alive, you know… Life is passing me by while I am just there looking at it. I, sometimes, feel existential wonder. And the meaninglessness. And again the opportunities and the pragmatic parcel of it. It is sort of a kaleidoscope of all the things that do not fit together. Nor blend. So, I don’t suppose I have one thing or another thing. I just…”.
I abruptly stopped talking. She looked at me. I stared back at her. And we both knew I was not going to say anything further.
After a few months, a local magazine read an obituary entitled “The Paradox” written by Mrs. Krementz.
What are you afraid of, they say.
They ask. They wonder. They speculate.
I pose. I think. I ruminate.
Most are afraid of death.
The thought of losing a breath.
Almost all are scared of loss.
Losing themselves.
Feigning personalities.
And frying of their ideal selves.
Am I not scared of loss?
Am I bold and fearless?
Have I not wandered to find the pieces of myself,
I would argue otherwise.
But death can’t scare me away.
In the sea of the abyss, I live in.
In the warmth of the loss city I have conquered,
I thrive and prowess in the valley of despair.
I can’t be afraid of the splashes
Nor the flashes of death and loss.
Yet, I’m scared of life.
Life in and of itself.
It is life I can not bear.
It is life I can not face (even when I’m facing it)
It’s life and the quirks
I can not condone
Nor I can frown upon.
For I it goes on and on.
Life scares me to death.
Death brazen me to life.
And fear unfolds the dark & the bright.
I don’t contemplate or fret,
Nor do I complain or frustrate.
Nor do I write or speak of it.
I just sigh and get on with it.
For my life has become
Unending loop of whelms,
I endure it like a robot.
Floating in the sea of denial,
Thriving in the land of irritation,
I rather not think
Or ponder.
For today is not any better,
Or tomorrow shan’t differ.
It’s a mundane cycle.
Unkind and brutal.
It’s a busy life.
A programmed strife.
So I sigh. I exhale. And I live,
My robotic life!
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!’
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.
Unabridged Manuscripts 