I’m itching to write, as if I were presented with a scab that has remained forever unpickable. I crave to write and write and have this pencil glide from page to page to scroll to keyboard, from material to technological, my words shall keep speaking. Kingdoms of two meter waves, rosie autumns, misty minds, suffering, hoping for catharsis. I crave to write about this whole existence, the earth and all the systems within it, and of course, the systems within and of course, the unknown, when we turn the lights off. In this little controversial mind of mine, I shall clear some space for a little writing laboratory. Test tubes and microscopes, sieves, gloves and the whole lot. You see it’s a science. One must first dip themselves into the waters of imagination, with gloves, carefully extract samples from different kingdoms: darkness, despair, adrenalin, jealousy (and we usually go for the nastier ones, harder to grab, more likely to bite your finger). And once you’re back from that expedition, you examine them under a microscope, these little twitching encapsulated potentials. With some wit and pincers, you tie them together to form a little world of yours, where gravity might be slightly different. Another warning: you can’t really control when these urges to dive into these creative, inviting, dangerous waters will come. Whether your head rests on a pillow, hair relaxed, body decompressing for sleep, or whether you’re at a coffeeshop, or on a rollercoaster, this urge simply does not care. You’re thrown into your diving suit and pushed into your subconscious synovial fluid. Down under there, the sky varies often, blanketed by the indigo wine and occasional lighting strikes. You might find some familiar structures, bits of picked up memories. You might find grieving faces- suppressed pain never nurtured. Now… I don’t want to spoil your exploration nor uncover too much of myself in this. All I can say is, remember to take your backpack.
How many people have sat on this very train and contemplated the comings and goings that have comprised of their life? Most probably a lot. Their eyes have most likely settled upon the tiny ghostly dagger marvels that seem to speed across the window with familiar urgency. This G-sharp piece of music I’m listening to races at the same speed- it’s urgent changes and screams perforate the air around me and now even the trees seem to be running away from me as I sit. The train tiptoes to a silent, shy stop and now it all grows a little softer, a little more honey-dewed. The white daisies stretch their necks with a morning glow, opening their faces towards the white fence they lie behind. Yet, all these musings remain but a mere distraction to the agenda of the travelling mind. So as the train keeps trudging into the near future, the picturesque nature slowly eases the true thoughts to come out of the passenger. And this is where me, myself, and any other passenger differ: both immersed leg-deep into our own personal waters, yet each facing different tides. Though no matter the size, they all affect us with the same magnitude and feeling of nostalgia. So the thoughts that were meant to be, spiral out like curls towards the shore, and we pick them up, one by one, like unique seashells, decoding each ages pattern with affection from the past. It’s a moment of serenity that only a train can allow. A moment of transit, where for once, the human being is not expected to achieve a thing, and sitting still is the most one ca do. Our soul, at once, is uncaged and starts expanding beyond the window until the clouds guide it back home, between the veins of our heart. Until the call for work beckons us back to reality.
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.
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.
Overhead clouds and the girl sitting opposite me seems slightly unamused with it all. With how her reality is painted or with how the foldable table juts out into her thigh unlike a beautiful thorn but more like a polished rounded nuzzle of a plane. To her, I think, the world is made out of aluminium and tectonic plates, never close enough to clash. Grey and incandescent blue striped of a hoodie might just be her comfort zone- more than the trees sprouting out of the ground (maybe a bit too violently for her taste). She seems like a person that would would have coffee without sugar because extending her hand across the table would be more of a nuisance. She doesn’t seem very excited about her end destination, or maybe her mind’s too haywire to allow herself to figure out which emotion to splay out (so she settles with none). On a second thought, she’s ruminating. There’s hurt, and fear of broken piano keys, scared of hitting a C minor. Maybe she’s left a love behind. Definitely not on the wrong train.
Being reunited with your first childhood love is something that feels very sudden, out of place, yet completely in place: fitting like a puzzle piece into your life. Seeing her again is like closing my eyes on a rollercoaster and opening them again only when they tell you to take off your seatbelt: and you feel like you’ve missed out on this whole middle chunk and you wished you were there to see it (yet you also don’t), so you just get the end product delivered to you. No labels. No preamble. Just the person with a smile that has shifted slightly and eyes that have lost and gained hope for what seems like centuries. And you remember seeing her joyous and naïve and ignorant, her eyes wide open like gemstones begging for light, for life to hit them. But it’s still all there. And the whiff you smell when she passes you is always the same and you know that if you were to squeeze her all into one drop of essential precious oil, it would smell as strongly and beautifully as it did three years ago. She wears scars now, but she also wears the same golden nail polish, and this little curious quirk has popped up in her- and it drives me crazy: her curiosity for life. She’s sticking her tongue out to taste what it feels like to be alive. And I’ll always feel this infinite tenderness towards her.
As a writer, I must observe the earth as if everything unfolding before me were a delicate petal slipping through the ring of my right thumb. I’m grasping it, I’m nearly there at having it all figured out but I’ll have to take another look- that’s my attitude on everything I discover. I’ll look at you, but not only in the eyes, and I won’t just read you like a book. I f you let me, I’ll submerge myself completely into water colored by the ink of your most terrible impulses. I’ll learn to memorise the way your knees click, how many times a day you tiptoe, what fingers you use to tap surfaces. I’ll notice how the wind creates fluctuations in our lives and I’ll learn that though I cannot grasp, I can try to imitate nature’s way of dancing with me and waltz across paper to explain it all. I’ll never be able to explain it all, and the size of the shard you’re given is either too big or too small- we’ll never know. What I can know is, what I’ll search to listen for at 4am (crickets), what emotions allow me to sink into a leather chair and what environment spills like hot lava over my nerves. I can learn how to sink languidly with how being this “me”, this “human”, feels like. I haven’t been given an instruction booklet so sometimes I still can’t fathom reactions this body will muster up; but I have figured out that this lead digging into paper or what my mind is able to string together and expel into the outer world will always be my task and my mother’s embrace. Not like a net or an anchor, but more like an overhead cloud or the gravel under my feet.
I think the biggest gift is being able to find beauty in the smallest of occurrences. And constantly being shocked by it, like a child.