Grey is not me

“Because falling was not the problem, when you fall, you are at peace;

It's only when you hit the ground, it caused all the grief.”

The words seep out of the cracked walls
And the mirth drains out from the flushed skin
In these willful words and broken roads -
Few sold their minds
Few lost their souls.
Few fought to build something beautiful
Few conquered the beautiful just to see it burn.
such is the illusion of control.
such is life, not always, though at times...
The key is to accept that at times, we may even lose.

Reality is transparent.

Fiction is Grey.

Serendipity

"All you can do is play along at life and hope that sometimes you get it right."
-Dexter Series

Sex. Drugs. Money. Love. Absolution. Freedom.

What's your poison?

Everyone has one.

It always starts out as mutualism, helping you find stability in your chaos, helping you appropriate balance.

But before you know it, it's transitioned into a tourniquet, cutting you off from the rest of your life and skewing that same balance you fought to achieve.

Eventually, it becomes an incurable cancer that multiplies and grows without consequence, seizes without warning and decimates without thought.

So we disembody ourselves to make room.

We cut off pieces of ourselves till we fit. We shift, morph into different forms to make the puzzle fall into place.

Sooner or later, there's nothing left of the original except the memory of a time when things weren't so chaotic and your life was balanced and simpler.

You wanted to know, right? That what it was like?

It was like being stuck in a sandstorm, you’re blind because your eyes are shut.

And then if you open your eyes -you’re blind anyway.
So you just stand around and let the sand wash over you.

Let one endless minute run into the other and hang on to the faint hope, that it will be over soon; that you will get your sight back when the storm has ended.

I suppose it's the insanity that made it beautiful, after all.

Maybe it's because I was angry and you were foolish - that we were happy at all.
Maybe I was foolish and you were angry, and we failed to see that at all.
Maybe that's because being angry and resentful was stubbornly better than feeling nothing at all.
Maybe because being malicious gave us a direction to go towards.
Maybe I tried so hard to be happy, I ended up miserable.
Maybe I try so hard to be miserable, I end up as nothing.
Maybe that's what makes it convincing that I'm alive. Or that you are.
Maybe life took form of that Rubik's cube whose alignment I failed to get right.

I am the metaphoric ‘star’ who needed burning, so as to discover.

I have come to terms that self-destruction was a programmed part of me.

There have been times when I have reached the lowest of the lows, I have thought back and smiled with indignation because I knew the possibilities. I knew inferences.

I always convinced myself that karma may have it in for me, that this was bound to happen.

I can never be happy because I was only happy when I was miserable.

At the back of my mind I felt I didn’t deserve peace or forgiveness.

Somehow, I also believe that I hurt you, because I knew that you would be there for me after everything.

You’re the only one I could be uncensored with.

I am not afraid to be annoying, angry, cranky, curt or even mean.

Because I know, quite positively, that love would lead me right.

Nonetheless, now of sudden, I realize that this process of self-destruction hurt you as much as me.

You were the one who helped me climb the ladder when I fell?

I know you will try to help, if I insist on misery and if I don't gather the will to look up.

But then I would simply be pulling you down as well too.

So I'm going to try to break the cycle.

Though, today I feel like a cassette that's jammed between rewind and fast forward, whose tape has unraveled and tangled.
Though I feel like a song that's being sung out of tune.

Though I feel like something that needs to be fixed.

But I also have come closer to realize, that,

Every question has an answer.

Every disease has a precaution, if not a cure.

Every drug has a placebo.

Every poison has an antidote.

Serendipity it was, that my thumb got stuck.
That's when life favored me with luck. 

I remember sleepy days, sprawled across my bed.

Barely speaking, watching the cars go by, the amber glow of the street lights signaling that it was time to leave. 

I remember thinking; this is the kind of comfortable love that never changes.

You are now as I knew you then, all chocolate eyes and rough skin.

You use a language that no longer needs ears to be heard.

A language that ties us to something unique that lives

I remember clinging to the back a dark haired seduction, wind whipping at our faces, opportunity stinging our lips, fire in our fingers and frailty in our hearts.

I remember thinking that I'd rather be in love than in limbo.

I remember the effervescent nights, where we morphed into one clandestine being, drunk on possibility. 

And that is when I understand - 

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Yours,

Beloved Scar

The Equally Vulnerable

 

It seems you hold

a hope that I'm a girl who knows
right from wrong

who doesn't need to cloak

her past or choke
The metaphor before it spills
into reality and kills

the thrill that comes with new romance

Though there is a chance 

that you won't abate

even if the truth snakes itself

into our foundation built on sand.
No promises, no prior plans -
just the path we perceive,
serenity sieved, saved
By opportunity, on display;
Swarms of hearts on which to prey
I'm radioactive.

stay away.
Eyes glued closed

to blind the sage in me who knows,
there's a truth that I can't shake-
it's too late.
but if you want me,
I'm yours to take.

Being human

She can hear the rumble of thunder, and knows what is about to ensue.

The lightning has already flashed, the thunder is now sounding and the downpour is just about to start.

She bends over, sweat trickling down the sides of her face, her hair a mess, body aching with fatigue.

Recalling the days when as a little child, she’d run to her mother’s arms every time there was a thunderstorm outside, she laughs sardonically at how time changes everything.

When it does start to rain, she crouches in a corner, tears streaming down her face, her heart caught in her throat.

Exhaustion takes over; she feels only half-conscious.

The tempest deepens, and now there are big blocks of ice hitting against everything around her.

Each frozen rock hits against her soft skin and takes her further away from consciousness.

The cyclone inside her swirls endlessly, crushing to bits everything she had put into herself, expelling the remnants.

It thickens still, and she finally begins to crack a smile through the tears.

To create, you first need to destruct.

To restart, you first need to stop.

To reach the peak, you first need to have been at rock-bottom.

To feel better, you first need to purge.

I was contradicting myself.

I was wrong.

You were right.

"Crying does not earn you pity, not always."

It makes you human.