city hair

And just like that, like a breath of fresh air, or a warm breeze, like the handing of summer into autumn, she disappeared. Without much of an eruption, silently, she was catapulted into the world, with her hair still on fire. What now? So as she slithers beyond alleys, she waits and braids her hair into waterfalls and forks. She’ll spin tales of what has been on these forks, and turn them into tridents. The city is noiselessly noisy, white and somehow, suddenly, holding these tridents of tales, she feels incongruent.

When the sun sets and the city’s ablaze, where will she go? Which gates will open for her now? Now unchained, she’s free to frolic and fight the night till the early hours- but the red, raw, skin on her wrists ache for the chains, somehow. Because with the chains come the tales and turbulences. So she dreams of those chains and metal, gates and fences, waking up to the taste of iron.

The next few mornings she wants to cut her fire hair- each strand maliciously weighing down on her (and she’s got her luggage for that.) So longingly, she’ll twirl her hair and twirl down her path, with the past twirling behind her. For a while, for now, she knows she’s a lizard with a chopped off tail. Left behind, it moans and wriggles. “Take me back, I beg you!”

 

So she nurtures this beautiful tail of hers, composed of all the colors she’s collected throughout the almost 24 months. Her hands trace ridges and scales and stop upon the empty spots, white, like the city, begging to be filled. “Just a little more, one more drop.” Those spots remain as they are, and both the tail and her learn to accept white as a color.

 

The day she leaves, looking down from the plane window, she can point out the treasures she’s buried and disowned on the land. She’ll see the souls down there and her, up there and all she wants to do is stitch the two worlds back together. And the past still glistens like an emerald palace, an open wound and her hair’s still ablaze, ignited like a cigarette. She’ll come back home alight, like that, glowing and dripping adrenaline. “What a wild ride it’s been.”

Time passes. She begins weaving her old world into the fresh, impatient new one. She never knew she could do that till now

 

Advertisements

Green ring

It’s a harsh life. Grandfather gifted me a mint leaf yesterday and a jade ring today. I float between this green-ness: an incapsulated reminder that summer will come and the cold will go. This winter bites harder than the last, chained by steel frigidness- we’re all trapped behind bars. Grandfather went out into the front door garden yesterday, to smell and pick the mint for me. He did it because he thought I was sick. Sick in the childhood nostalgic sense: stubborn sneezes, oozy eyes and all. We all let him believe that. I was sick in different ways. It was like this whole time I was walking on cracked glass, and only now did it finally shatter. Never thought I was capable of carrying so much weight, dragging them along to create a path soon sucked up by my quicksand. Never thought I could breathe in and consequently out like a revving engine.

I don’t quite like these comparisons, I’m saying as my eyes rest on the gleaming golden ring. My writing never as polished as that elegant embrace of light and precious metal. Who am I to ponder upon elegance? The whole occurrence was anything but polished, like smudged pencil marks after impatient rubbing on paper. You can never rub out a mistake completely, dear, traces will always remain (shavings too). So this time, I’m not trying to rub it all off, instead I’ll turn the traces into something beautiful. As a human, I have an advantage in finding beauty in the pile of rubble. (define rubble).

Yesterday I fell down a well, and when I hit water, I thought that was it. And when I started sinking, realising the fall wasn’t over, I opened my eyes. All unfamiliar. Burning salt-water, numb hands. Fuck. My oxygen tank was out, I had used it all up, litre by litre, on the voices of the past. Sitting on the hour hand, I weighed her and me out, down to the last breath of air. She shone and kept shining, blinding my eyes, driving my thoughts like moths to her.  The figure of her, her curves, the way she opened her arms to the world. How I, instead, kept them crossed. (I think). Trapped like a marble in an arcade game, bouncing between realities I wish to be, forgetting there was only one exit sign, one place to be, ever. And with all that bouncing and clashing in the maze, I left behind a trail of velleities. And with all that happening in that too-much confined space of my mind, I forgot. I forgot my eternal dance with ink and stories and hearts of people. My sensual strides, barefoot in nature, air fresh and undressing me of my skin. I forgot my magic and how much I loved singing inside seashells and looking up at clouds. How much I desired to unfold my petals to everyone, to it all. To show my radiating, pulsating light. My flower will never be like hers, and our buds will bloom in different ways and we’ll be facing the sun at different times. We were meant to grow into something different. We will have different vines chopped off us and we crawl across different continents and settle at different times. Our missions, infinitely different and that’s what I love about it. My reality must be like this, and her’s like that, it is essential. I’m happy to say we’re carrying it out amazingly.

Dear, we’re different flowers with ever changing, never clashing roots.

Let me marvel at all the tulips, daisies, orchids, roses, sunflowers in the field. All composed of one frequency, love.

humans

Humans are so intricate, like finely tuned violins. If you strum them with enough fragility, they’ll sing you tunes that are out of this world. And for every phase of the moon or mercury, they’ll bathe you with their sweet little personalised melody. At times, these tunes full you up to the brim with melancholy hopeless despair, then they’ll tip you over like a water bottle as you watch yourself spill out your tales. Tales of how deep a cave your heart is and how many shadows splay upon it every time moonlight crawls in. Other times, it’s as if their tunes were to empty you all out. You’d imagine them place a straw and suck you dry when you never even realised you were a full bottle. They sing to you lullabies with a voice that dips down, then arches high with peppermint breath. All you do is lull your head back in pleasure, hands waving in the air, intertwining with all the magic around you.

On growth

Teeter-tottering between utter indignance and the shallow waters of seemingly-ancient preoccupations. Preoccupations that held upright the clay to form the statue that I was. Eyes frozen in place, head never to tilt a degree lower. Now, all that’s left is cellophane snakeskin, first shedding between the cracks, now peeled off completely- with the satisfaction of removing a used up, scratched up sticker. New flesh glistens, pumping and fuelling, beating unusually. Fingers skim over this newly polished marble surface, and only once or twice have they delved under. Floating back up to the surface, it’s the feeling of having tasted a first time: unimaginable, frighteningly beautiful bliss, you never knew you could find even after multiple sunsets of digging. It’s the feeling of cracking a prepubescent book spine open, or the desperate inhale of air after having childishly timed how long your lungs could go without oxygen. Then your fingers slip out of these depths and return to longingly caressing the surface. You’re not sure how many more times this marble floor will open up for you to dive into, or whether, with the seasons passing and your exhale blowing like the wind will wear the layers out. But after that one glimpse, your motor’s running and you’re ready for more.

Alone time is okay.

Alone time is okay. And it’s okay if some days you just want to dig into cloudy soil with muffled breaths to make a blanket out of morning sunlight and just go back to sleep. it’s okay if an assail of jitters takes over and all you do is sink- so let yourself sink, and let yourself fold into a beautiful paper crane. your wings might be tainted with vermillion cuts but know that they will heal with each  peppermint breath of silence. Dear, it’s okay if some days, faraway echos of laughter tug at you but your limbs only want to weave into empty spaces and places where your arms can stretch for miles.

it’s okay if unlike other flowers you don’t explode, pirouette with light around presences and constant talking. instead, you might just want to ease on the accelerator, eyes enraptured by one one pair of pupils at a time.

some take it fast, and gulp down the day all at once- but it’s also okay to glide from one second to the next,

expanding gently,

unfolding,

unbinding

with time and patience.

at times you just need to stop with a mouth full of marvel and a deep breath.

you bloom in quiet beautiful places, and that’s okay too,

because honey, in the end, we all water our flowers in different ways.

So dear, take your time hopping from soul to soul. languidly expand and you’ll find that meeting each individual glow will soon feel as soft as braiding hair underwater.

mystical speaking

she spoke of realms that exceeded the world and overflowed your mind, sprinkling evanescent glitter on the top of your head with the tips of her fingers. Open your mouth, she’ll place a pill behind your tongue; and it spreads like acid as she speaks of these unknown worlds, mouth shaping sound after sound oh so majestically. now you’re in a state of bliss questioning whether space even exists or does it only appear between each blink of her incandescent blue lashes. she speaks in elision and you also wonder if she’s got human blood flowing in her veins or does she come from mercury or some other elegant planet? one moment or another you’d expect her to turn taciturn, lean over, slice your tongue in half, pocket the pill and replace it with sugar.

you want her to teach you how to see sunlight under leaves or count how many arteries a tree has compared to a wave because you feel like she controls it all, controls how strongly the wind blows or how many clouds there will be today and what shapes they will form. but you know she’s most enchanting under an eclipse’s moonlight or early dawn, barefoot on your terrace. jaw slightly slack, eyelids too, and of course, speaking. you’ll make her soft fur accent into a pillow and fall asleep, dreaming of all those faraway realms she says one day she’ll visit.

writer’s block

Words may seem like the silliest of little things, stubborn and childish. At times, I find myself dragging them out by their baby fat arms, maybe even bribing them with fresh obsidian ink. Trust me, their heels stay grounded on the floor of your palate, shoes squeaking with friction as you pull and pull. When it gets worse, they simply cross their arms, huff out vehement resentment, then with their oddly shaped bodies, trot under your tongue. Now you’re really in trouble, because you can’t reach for them there. But you know they’ll come out eventually, they’ve got to eat somehow. You’ve given up, you’re sinking into the leather armchair, thinking, maybe you should just resort to making armchairs instead of writing. Practical, and there’s no hide and seek with them. And as you slowly fall asleep, with your jaw open, the words crawl out, one behind the other, and place themselves onto the paper, with infinite patience. With an ornate smile, they let themselves down, their spine going clack..clack..clack like the sound of a retractable pen being clicked.