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.

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.

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.

.Bundle of Contradictions.

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It’s like I am giving pieces of myself away to them for safekeeping, a way to keep you sort of thriving. They probably have no idea that without you I am the kind of deficient no medication can fix. I miss myself but finding that girl is like getting sleep to come to you when you’ve been awake for too long such that your eyes won’t close even with the constant burn and desire for them to do so.

I was wondering today why I always end up writing in the same theme and someone told me not to worry and to just write about the weird stuff. I realized that you make as much of me as you did before and the place in my heart I always call empty isn’t so but very much occupied by you. It makes me angry at you though because that makes me feel like the sort of lost there is no compass for. The kind that was faced by sailors of the old when clouds would cover the sky and they would curse for all it was worth for the disappearance of the stars. I believe they still knew more about the world with certainty than I do. What do y9o9u do when life spins you around with a blindfold on and dumps you miles away from what you knew to be familiar and then tells you to get your shit together and go home. What do you do when home was where you were naïve and spent nights on a blanket watching the stars, when home was playing basketball in the heat and the smell of warm French toast, when home was the smell of a  dirty boy pushing you behind him just so that you wouldn’t get into a fight with the bigger kids in the park. What do you do when ‘home’ is taken away. Without you I feel like the sort of homeless that comes when the only home I want has boarded up its windows, changed the locks and its location with no new mailing address to forward my letters to.

I feel so guilty feeling all of this because I really do love life and I am happy, I really am, and more importantly, self assured because I need no one for my happiness but there is this underlying sadness that no amount of tears can drown. The problem with keeping up with the current is, you eventually learn to swim. The teardrops fall, still and in tandem. Each one frightened to make its journey with the burden that it carries and so they plunge into their demise bravely within the eyelids with more grace than I deserve on my cheeks. Sometimes your absence hits like a wave that I haven’t planted my feet against and before I have time to adjust, the level keeps on rising taking back with it everything I had built up. It is now such a constant part of life that I don’t even get shocked at the utter callousness of the ocean, directing its wrath so clearly at me time and again.

I am inventing this as I go, This feeling with each drop of hope that builds up then falls out of me, with each time I feel free only to be caught and shackled again. Its like this repetitive beat reverberating within me, reminding me of my lifetime subscription to the same slideshow again and again. The feeling of the car swerving and the small hands clutching at me, positioning me out of the way within that split second when you took my place. The acute realization that it should have been me. The sounds of the hospital, the machines, the people, your voice promising me that everything will be fine.

It seems like a story sometimes, a twisted scene unfolding in front of me as I watch as an onlooker, laughing at its incredulity. There is silence in that version though, the sort of silence few people on this Earth know about. The kind of silence that has its own sound that hurts so much that you feel your eardrums about to burst. The silence that only comes when the last echo of your own laughter has died and only a memory remains of the voices that used to hum to you and pull you back from the darkest nights and most haunting nightmares.

So many pieces have been shattered off that I don’t think I quite remember the whole picture that it was, I just remember it being beautiful and maybe, that’s why I give some pieces away so that maybe, just maybe, someone might be able to make a picture out of it again. With all the focus on the slow dropping through space and the literal crash that scattered all of them to unimaginable places, I forget though that sometimes only one set of hands know how things were before and I would so much rather be broken than put back together in the wrong order by the wrong hands with the wrong glue but the fact that I have people to give them to, a whole village of people actually, makes me want to believe in all the bright, sunny crap they put on bumper stickers. It’s all true and even with the dark and twisty bundle of contradictions that I am, that’s what I’ll choose to believe in.

 

.Multiverse.

 

Michelangelo PietaWhen someone we love dies, a part of us dies along with them but unlike the physical remains of that said person that we bury deep in the ground – unlike every other living thing that dies – we do not bury this part but rather, carry it with us, a constant bearing on our being for the rest of our lives.

In the 1890s, William James came up with the theory about “the multiverse”. Every once in a while, the dead part inside takes over the rest of our heart and makes us think about the hypothetical set of multiple universes comprising everything that can possibly exist simultaneously. Teasing the idea of an alternative life, a different fate. It spreads like darkness, snuffing the light out, making us question our entire existence, making us resemble our dear departed loved ones as best as we can; Turning us into a false rendition of corpses, dead in all sense but talking, breathing and in a manner of speaking, alive.

The darkness is tempting, a way to be close to the loved ones that have left us, a way to keep them alive by losing ourselves in their grief, losing ourselves with them. Some strong people though resist it, making its reign last only for some time, fighting with it every day, breathing life into the living corpse, a little more everyday using its battle within as a driving force to honour the people lost in the best way possible. Those people are few though and with good reason. The hardest part in the world is to let go of all the possibilities that could be and that is actually what is the worst. Waking up everyday and thinking about the future we were cheated of. The could have been’s.

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So I think of William James’ theory; The entirety of space, time, matter and energy all happening at once in different timelines. Parallel universe with all the what ifs and the could have been’s. So let’s presume that idea is real. Then maybe, in those infinite universes is one, or more, where you stay. Maybe there is a universe out there, happening right now where we stay at home that day, where my last words to you don’t haunt me forever, where I don’t lose you. A universe in which, when I close my eyes at night, I’m not dreaming about what could be but rather as a normal person would, about outrageous fairytales and handsome princes without the sadness that exists in everything now, even the happy times.

Maybe that’s what I see. The flashes of our life in the multiverse. They are not simple dreams you see; They are scientific, anachronistic visions. After all, we shared a womb so what’s to say we don’t share flashes of life across universes. I wish you could see me in this one though. Miss you best friend.