Posts Tagged ‘ lit ’

Short Story: A Full Moon, Cigarette Scents And Tensioned Love

Listen to: Ólafur Arnalds – Fok

You grab my hand gently, point with my finger to the moon and say, “look.” I look, not at the moon but at you; startled. Your eyes, they sparkle for me. They’re too magical for a full moon to beat.

“You can hide the moon with your finger,” you tell me. “But it’s always there.”

You lean closer to kiss me, but I can’t let you. I stop you. “No,” I say. I look towards the moon and it is nowhere to be found.

“Look,” I took your hand and point at an empty sky. “It’s not always there.” Just like you, in a way. You leave and come, come and go, expecting me to always wait for you to shine at night. You’re as temporary as a full moon, but even then, it’s beautiful in a way — the pain you make me feel. Every time you come, leave, come, then leave again and in every instance of you leaving, I hope of your never return.

You lean closer till I can feel your breath on my skin. I look away, in search of a missing full moon. You place your hand on my cheek and turn my face towards you, gently like you always do.

“Do you feel that?” you whisper and the hair at the back of my head stands up.

“Yes,” I quiver.

“Love,” you say.

“Tension,” I counter.

“Love,” you insist.

“Tension,” I repeat.

“Tensioned love,” you waiver.

I do not bulge, “Tension.”

I take a step back, and you let me. You don’t pull me back like you gently would. “You’re right,” you utter, fixing your shirt while in search of a missing full moon. “It’s not always there.”

“Just like you,” I tell you.

You wonder why I could never love you.
I leave with the smell of your cigarettes mixed with my perfume embedded in my shirt. I can’t wash it, it’s all I have left of that night we could’ve never been. I can never wear it again, it’s all I have left of a night I never want to live again.

Sometimes I miss not you, but the thought of being cared for by you, others I stare helplessly at a moonless sky. It comforts me, because just like me, its moon has gone missing.

I call you in the middle of a hot summer night. “Is the moon shining where you are?” I ask in a faint voice. “Are you crazy?” you say with your sleepy tone. “Yes,” I admit. “I am crazy.”  “Go to sleep,” you tell me. “The moon is too big for both of us to care for.”

But I don’t love you. I couldn’t love you then, and I won’t love you now.

“Out of all that is symbolic, you chose the moon, and I hate you for it,” I cry out.  “That’s good,” you say and I hear a lighter in the background. “At least you feel something towards me.”

“Are you smoking?” I ask, trying to change the subject like I always do. “Don’t worry,” you gently laugh. “Scents don’t travel through phones yet.”

I do not reply, nor do I hang up. “Remember that shirt you wore that night?” you ask, trying to break my silence. “Which night?” I ask in oblivion.

“The night you said the sky is beautiful,” you point out with your trembling voice.  “I do,” I flinch at the sight of it hanging, untouched, in my closet.  “I saw a girl wearing the exact top the other day and I remembered you,” you let out a sigh, “If I could ever forget you, that is.” “I need to go now,” I interrupt you. “Let’s never talk again.”

I close the phone, run to my closet, grab my shirt and wash it.

Poem on Syria: Putrefaction

of late

I’ve had this thought

that this country

has gone backwards

4 or 5 decades

and that all the

social advancement

the good feeling of

person toward

person

has been washed

away

and replaced by the same

old

bigotries

 

We have more than ever

the selfish wants of power

the disregard for the weak

the old

the impoverished

the helpless.

 

We are replacing want with war

salvation with slavery

we have wasted the gains

we have become rapidly

less

 

we have our Bomb

it is our fear

our damnation

and our

shame

 

now

something so sad

has hold of us

that

the breath

leaves

and we can’t even

cry

 

— Charles Bukowski, who rarely capitalized words.

Thread of thought: What is pain?

Listen to: Eyes closed by Ludovico Einaudi

April 18th, 2012.

What is pain?

Pain is when there is no one to hold your head up as you hurl the contents of your stomach for the fifth time in an hour. When you become the prisoner of your body, intoxicated by thoughts of humanly freedom, yet bound to your bed, unable to move at will.

What is pain?

Pain is you. Pain is your body’s warmth going cold on mine. It is when you and I could be all we ever dreamed to be; instead, we built a wall of fear and past failures between us, high enough to reap through our hearts. Pain is your scent scattered across a city gone colorless after your departure. It is your eyes captured in pictures of us when we were happy. I could never see it as clearly as I do now. You are pain.

What is pain?

When you look at yourself in the mirror and see a reflection of a complete stranger staring back at you. When you feel like you are a stranger within your own body. Like your spirit is colonizing your body instead of peacefully filling it. When you feel hallow and empty, trying to fill a void that does not exist.

What is pain?

Pain is when you know what you are capable of, but never reach your full potential. Pain is when you see all that you can ever be, but always one step behind. It is when you look at your work, whether it’s a design, a poem, or a photograph and feel like it is missing that one special touch. And you endlessly search, edit, and repeatedly try to make it complete. Pain is the pursuit of perfection. Pain is your buried talent that everyone praises and believes in but you.

What is pain?

Pain is when I reach to my phone every night, dialling your number. Pain is when I am constantly reminded by you and how I failed you. Pain is when I seek love but never fully feel it. Pain is the inability to love again, to trust again, to be again. Pain is when I smile knowing that happiness will never be mine. Pain is when I am yet to forget your number. Pain is when I lose myself just to live, and what is a life without a soul?

What is pain?

Pain is unacquainted love.

What is pain?

When you take a risk for once and spend the rest of your life regretting it, wondering if it was worth it at all.

This is an experimental post. I will be updating this every now and then. This is me trying to discover what pain is, in my own terms.