Jump!

Have you ever stood at the edge of a cliff, poised to that that step forward?

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Have you ever stood at the edge of a cliff, poised to take that step forward, wanting to plunge into the magnificent blue ocean below. It beckons to you, the ocean, with its never ending vastness and the sun bouncing off its surface, leaving stars in its wake. Have you ever stood at that cliff until your desire to jump becomes a chant in your head – “Jump. Jump. Jump.” – and you want to. So bad. Especially because even amidst the deafening roar of the water and the voices in your head coming from all sides, even then, you can differentiate the voice that spins your desire, urging you on. Coaxing you into the beautiful water. Enticing you with the feeling you get from its nearness, standing on that cliff, poised to take that step forward and above all, wanting it too.
The thing about the ocean is, It’s deep and deadly, full of hidden secrets. For a few seconds there, you’re buoyant and floating, happy with the feeling. Then, you sink. The water pulls you below, until it surrounds you and it’s all you can see. You loose control over your own limbs and all you can do is gasp and flail for all that its worth. It’s everywhere. Burning in your throat, filling your lungs, pressing your limbs down. You struggle to stay afloat but the way to the surface seems impossible to cover. There comes a point that you can’t even remember what it was like to feel actual air in your lungs, to see without the itchiness in your eyes, to hear anything other than the roar of pressure in your ears. It builds up until you give up, you give up and the ocean lets you fall. It lets you fall and buries you in its store of treasures, or of ruins. Another one that fell for its calm demeanor above, for the feeling it made them feel. Another casualty of blind, hopeful faith.
So, have you stood at the edge of a cliff, poised to take that step forward, wanting to plunge. Have you stood at the edge of a cliff until your desire to jump becomes a chant in your head. When you do, and darling, one day yes you will; Don’t.

Desensitized

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Maybe I’ve been desensitized to their sufferings

Maybe I’ve watched enough desecrated bodies to not catalogue them as bodies anymore

It’s no big deal no more, they’re just a number to show

 

The land that was celebrated on spilled blood, still is

The land that was celebrated on public service has a me before anyone policy

The land we wanted for freedom of expression uses it to grieve

 

Grieve for the hundreds that die everyday

The mother that loses her child to corrupt mafias

The sister that loses her brother in target killing

Or the father who went to pray, only to have his own prayer offered

 

Grieve for the sleepless nights spent wondering if today would be the day sons don’t come home

The restless days thinking their daughters would be harassed

Or the adolescent that wakes up shivering thinking about the things that could go wrong

We grieve, it’s the one thing we know how to do so well we don’t even feel it anymore

 

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This is the land they died to protect, left everything to get

The system of loot, plunder, rape and murder that started then has continued today

Years later, we’re still burying in mass graves, we’re still crying our lives away

 

Maybe that’s what freedom meant, funerals our way

The thousands that die, the countless that did

Maybe I’ve been desensitized to their sufferings,

 

Bombs blast, shots fired – What if they did?

Believed?

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The first time you told me you loved me, I didn’t even know what that meant. For me, it was safety and cuddles and someone who’d get me chocolates when I scraped my knees and give me their toys when I got tired of mine. I was the girl dancing, with big eyes and stars within; And, I believed you.

Fast forward a few years on, too fast we discover death together. We grow up, we lose our best friend. The world is an abstract of emotions, fleeting. So much so, that the only thing that seems familiar, seems safe, is you. You tell me you love me, even through my hysterics and sedatives, even as scared as you were yourself. Barely a boy; But, I believed you.
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The year you left, I remember staring up at the night sky, a budding teenager desperately searching for answers beyond her age. Even then, I remember hearing your voice through the haze surrounding me. Even then I remember the conviction of the thought that you were out battling demons and that you were one who’d come back at least. Barely a memory; Still, I believed you.

 

I hadn’t cried for two days even amidst all the others mourning. You didn’t have to do anything, just sit by my side to let me lower my walls, to let me break down. You were shaking even as you tried to grip me, as if you could physically pull all the pieces together. You were silent even as you saw me suddenly smile and smooth my face over no matter how disapproving the look on your own face. Your eyes told me stories of galaxies of refuge, of strength and reluctant pride. Barely a feeling; Though, I believed you.

 

When I first read The Notebook, you were Noah for me. I should have realized then that we were doomed. When you told me you loved me, I laughed. You told me again, and I started thinking ‘maybe’. Come eighth time and slowly, I let myself love you. Let myself listen to you. Let myself acknowledge what you could be to me. Barely a thought; However, I believed you.

 

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They thought we were too perfect for such young an age.
Nice now meant giving too much, a noose around your neck. Forever sort of love sounded like you were suffocating.
Your friends wanted you to be there on the other side smoking pot instead of entertaining the wide eyed girl with her irrational love for ice cream.
Your breath now stank of iridescent lies and dangerous highs.

 

The last time you told me you loved me; I stopped believing in love.

Wronophobia

There is a word for the fear of being seen as you are and the incessant thinking that you can’t be loved being yourself. They call it wronophobia. I don’t think they should have a word for that because it’s just a fancy way of creating yet other differences, making people more conscious of it. Who are we anyways? I don’t suppose any of us is one person, confined to a certain description of how we are. I used to call my friend a hypocrite back when I was this angry emo girl wanting nothing to do with anyone in the world. I later realized that it’s not that she was being fake, she just had a different approach to different people. However, in our obsession with people and companionship and being liked I sometimes think we lose sight of our own shadow striving to be all that would be ‘acceptable’ and avoiding our own selves, running around, always tired, always short of breath.

IMG_20160702_015708_790I’ve never liked myself too much. I always assume I’m boring and dry and have a repetitive reel going in my head and that no one would want to listen to my crap. I’ve looked around at the chirpy, sassy girls with their comebacks and their sense of humour and always felt as if I lacked something; That I was inadequate. Your immediate outward personality is what draws people to you, very few reach in and understand the person that you are. People come among people to have fun, to laugh. No one wants to spend time breaking down the boring barriers and come to the hyper talkative person that I believe is inside all of us. We’re made up of stories and each one of us is bursting to tell their own. If only, each one of us was willing to listen too.

Growing up, you learn to manipulate yourself, to adjust according to people. Everyone wants to be included and in the process of trying to be likeable we lose sight of ourselves and let the belief that we couldn’t be loved if we weren’t a certain way, simmer, gaining momentum, striving to compensate for being what we’re actually supposed to be. Ourselves. It is a restless thrust forward driven by the applause rather than the cause, trying to curb the insatiable thirst for outside acceptance and admiration, our lives proliferating into delusional ideals of perfection and ‘goals’ with no regard to the thought that each of our journeys is different, our stories unique and amazing in their own kind.

The fear of being unloved and unwanted is too great to overcome and so we try to cut off the parts of us that are flawed, crooked or inconvenient and unknowingly, initiate a  detrimental war against our own selves, battling to oppress the core of what makes us different. In the world that we live in now, self-esteem is like an empty bucket with a leak we desperately keep on scooping worth into, always striving to be a certain way, addicts for the reassurance of someone or the other to counter the self-sabotaging thoughts. The innocent wish to be accepted thus evolves into a disabling fear even when we don’t fully realize it taking its toll on our lives, gripping into us with claws so deep we can’t free ourselves without bleeding.

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I’ve since realized I’m not a perfect porcelain doll. I’m not someone with good comebacks or an amazing sense of humour. I’m complex and edged, full of scars and flaws and cracks but every edge of me is a part of my distinctiveness. They define me and complete me. They make me a whole person and I don’t have to strive for a certain ideal to be something to someone. The self confidence that I can be happy with my own self, peaceful with the voices in my own head gives me more satisfaction than anything I did to be liked did. Reclaiming authenticity is frightening. I feel like I’m meeting someone who had been trapped in a tower for too long and is now learning what the world is through new eyes. Despite all the stumbles of my metaphorical ‘sea legs’ though, I’m glad to meet myself.

Beads of Blood.

What do they know?.

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You would think it hurts, It doesn’t. It’s a high, a relief when for a sweet second, you can point out the direction of the pain in real time, you can have an active reason to feel. They always say it incredulously as if who would want to feel the pain.

I smile to myself, what do they know.

Finally, I’m in control, I can determine myself what I want to feel, how I want to feel and for a freeing moment; I’m me.

As the drops of crimson appear, I’m laughing.

I’m laughing because I can finally see you again.

I’m laughing because this is one thing that I get to keep.

I’m laughing because these beads of shared blood and your voice in my head covers all my senses until all I can see and feel and hear, is you.

It’s madness and I’m laughing because this madness is mine and no one can take me from me.

Challenges

Not because I’m scared of losing, but…

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No, I do not like challenges.

He took me as a challenge you see. He put chinks in my armour that weren’t their before, he scaled the walls around further than anyone had. He didn’t like losing; So, he gave it his all to win.

They always forget though; That every little part conquered comes with its own responsibility. You can’t take over something and then move on to the next quest without looking back, because while you might be moving ahead, the parts that are now your domain wilt in your negligence, in your ignorance of them.

I don’t want to give anyone that power. I want to hold on to the bandage I’ve so carefully applied to all the chinks, how I’ve filled the walls, how I’ve watered the parts to the point that they don’t need to depend on someone’s attention to flower again.

I don’t like challenges.

Not because I’m scared of losing; But, because I’m absolutely terrified of winning too.

Not Depressed.

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I read somewhere recently, “Happiness is an inside job” – It’s true on the most part. Many people simply let happiness flow freely from their minds and envelope them like a warm blanket. I have to believe I have the power to not let sadness predominate my perceptions of the things around me. I have to believe that I have the power to cage the monster, the predator stalking me inside my head like I’m its prey.

Depression is an actual medical condition due to the chemical messengers of the brain and it should be addressed seriously as such. I am not depressed. I spend most of my time being thankful for the life I lead. It’s a mess but it’s my mess and it’s as much a part of me as anything else. Sometimes though, I find myself staring off into space gripping myself trying to keep the random waves of sadness from overtaking me, trying to not let my heart crumple under the sudden onslaught of grief. It’s like this rapidly spreading forest fire threatening to take over trying to set me aflame in my own head, destroying the peace.

It’s the sort of feeling that never gets a name because you can never understand it. It’s faceless and it wants every peaceful part of your mind. It duels with the internal satisfaction and peace that you’ve worked so hard on building up trying to defeat you and swallow you whole to keep you in an abyss of eternal sadness inside your own head.

The geek that I am, it somehow feels like a dementor’s kiss, taken forcefully without warning. It grows more and more sucking the light out of you giving you no chance to run. You try to gather all the strength that you have and reach for the place you keep your memories. Where you keep your reserves of strength and go to replenish yourself when you’re lying bloody on the ground. This is the place you must go and pick the strongest sensation of hope that you can find to fight back. You can’t hide, the place singed by the fire isn’t one where you can stay after slamming the door to the thing stalking you. You go out and you stand up with all the strength that you ever had, lift your head high, take a deep breath and bring out your strongest weapon. And; You smile.