My Heart's Sun - #1

We do not have childhood memories.

Us.

Me and you.

We did not run bare-feet across the corn fields, chasing butterflies. And even if we did, you would deny it, at least the butterflies part. Because you would hate to think that that admission might cost you the smile of that cute girl sitting across from us.

You did not pull my hair and put bugs down my dress as a way of showing me that you liked me. You did not pinch me and ran away, leaving me crying, but inwardly happy that its me you picked to pinch. Twisted, I know. You understand, though, don't you?

We did not sit next to each other in class and steal glances at each other books hoping to catch the answer to the question on the blackboard. We did not even sit in the same class, passing notes, making fun of the teacher, making fun of other students.

We did not walk home together, playing 'It'. Nor did we even race home, the winner gloating for hours.

Our parents did not have a hard time making us do things separately. Nor did they have to make us finish our chores first before we rushed off together to lawd knows where.

We did not fight because when we started dating, we stopped spending time together. I did not hate your new girl because she was more special than me. You did not want to slap me because I was dating an asshole you wished I would just dump.

We have no memories from before.

Yet.

When I met you, something shifted. What we did not have, we somehow did. In a crazy alternate universe. Because everything felt like we'd been there before. Nothing felt foreign.

You joked with me like you'd known me since I was a cat's height. Two minutes after we met, you teased me without caring if I would take offense. I did not not. And you somehow knew I wouldn't.

We knew. We felt it.  This was bound to happen. We were destined to meet. To be friends. Forever

You were lying on a hospital bed. That first day. I made fun of you. You laughed. Hard. You looked beat, yet your spirit... It was the spirit of a guy I did not grow up with, but I would definitely be having around for a long time.

We talk. Endlessly. We never run out of things to say. It's been a month. Yet, forever does not even compare.

It kills me, that sometimes I call you and despite the pain, you will pick, just to say thanks for calling, I miss you, I am too much in pain to talk. I hang up and try not to cry. Because you would mock me for crying. And I would feel bad.

And I cry. Just a little. Because my one wish, is to take that pain away. And kick it's stupid behind to the Great Wall of China. And hang it there. Naked. For all to see. Because you know you can see that wall from the moon and that means that the whole universe can laugh at it.

Then I get the text. One word.

 'Baby'.

And I smile. Because I know that despite what you are feeling, the pain you are in, you want to talk. And I can't wait to tell you useless things. And complain about the man in my life. Well, the one that used to be in my life.

You patiently listen.

Before I remember, I am going on and on about a silly non-relationship when I should be going on and on about your chemo. And you find ways to change the topic again. To the fact that I 'friendzoned' you. Then I laugh and tell you for the millionth time, you cannot break up with a friend. It's the best zone. And you laugh. And I hear the pain in your laughter.

I am still planning to sneak into your hospital room and hide in the toilet. You know, as we planned.  Then play monopoly  or some silly game on the iPad till we bore each other to death. Though, I have a feeling you would rat me out just to watch me get in trouble.

I miss you, bad.

You see those memories we did not have up there? I plan on having them. No you cannot pull my hair, but you can help me undo braids. Yeah, that's what friends do! You cannot put bugs down my dress, but you can refuse to kill a bug just to watch me pout. And you know how I am the queen of pout.

I plan on bringing my kids over to yours to play with yours. That is me telling you to get married quickly. Which remind me, you must be the only one who gets that many women visitors. No way you have convinced the nurses they are all family.

I hate it that I can't see you. Because you.... you are my heart's sun. And it's kinda hard for me to see that sun now that you have it hidden in some room in some hospital that won't even let us in.

Time for me to call you, Bakari.

Read More

The mantises in my life.

I have been here before. Writing about rain. And always, my rain goes with tears. Not today. Today it rains outside, it pours like a punishment to earth. The soil cringe and dread the next rain drop. It prays that the next one will not hurt as bad, will be a tad bit gentle. Yet, it hurts more. And as it pours, helplessly the soil is taken away, to lands unknown.

That has been my life for a while. I have not been in control of what my life has turned out to be. The raindrops have unhinged me, carried me away. Not anymore.

Today, from a coffee shop, I watch the rain. And do not identify that feeling. Instead, I see the beauty, the clearness of colours that seems to appear after the rains. The earth has been washed a new. And so has my heart. I am content. 

I have made mistakes. Those that have made me question my sanity. Because I walked into them eyes wide open. Even peptalked myself as I headed deep into them. Then I cried. Then I hurt. Depressed. Stressed.

There is this praying mantis that  loved hanging out at the door to my laundry room. This mantis is so huge, I was convinced it was either a drone or a Martian. Or a Martian drone. I can never bring myself to kill bugs, no matter how much I hate them. My solution has always been to pick them up with a stick or toilet paper. Throw it into the toilet, then flush. This is where you're allowed to form an opinion into the kind of mother I will make.  Because I shall give birth to bugs. Moving on...

For some reason, I think that's less painful. Like, the flushing happens to fast, they have no time to contemplate whats about to happen to them. I guess that's how I'd like to die myself. I only extend that to them bugs.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, this mantis. I did not want to kill it. I took pictures of it. I posted them on Twitter. I complained about it. But every morning, I went there to look for it.  There was another bug hanging around. No idea what breed that is. But it was always close to the mantis. For a week. These two bugs camped at my door. There were remnants of what looked like food. Or it could have been an accumulation of dirt. But it looked like very tiny dead leaves and ants heads etc., I chose to assume it was the food these two were eating.

One day I go downstairs to the laundry room to check on them. This is becoming an obsession. An unhealthy one. The mantis is gone. The other bug is still there.  I search. Imagine walking up to me at that time and asking me what it is I am looking for. Nowhere to be seen. There are no green spiky and spindly legs remains to give an indication that Bug#2 ate the mantis. Or maybe it did, its a just a very clean eater.

I am kind of disappointed. I kinda liked the mantis.

Following day, I go to check. Bug#2 still there. Day three, bug is lying on the ground. I am not a pathologist, but I can tell when a bug is dead. And this one is pretty much so.

I choose to go with a romantic story as to why it died. It could not live without the mantis.  The mantis upped and left. And instead of Bug #2 living on, going out and enjoying bug life, discovering more doors in my house, it chose to stay there. And die.


There I was. That was me. I am afraid of being alone. I either always have people around me, or the TV, or something. Anything to keep from being with myself. I am a relationship addict. I love being in love. I love having someone.

Then it hit me.

I am that bug. I will die, if I do not learn to live and be okay without the mantises in my life.

Read More

But the bleeding, it does stop.

It's early. Too early. But isn't it always?

I park my car and get out. It's the middle of nowhere. The sun has just risen over the hills, the thorny bushes just beginning to stir. I have always wondered if thorns go to sleep. Like, do the sharp edges soften with the cool air and the rising of the moon and the twinkling of the stars. Do the tips get caressed by the soft evening breeze, gently coaxed into acceptance? That sometimes,  just sometimes, it doesn't hurt to be soft.

I want to touch that thorn before the sun hits it. Before it has had a chance to remember that it is a thorn. So I walk towards a bush. I spread my fingers and let a couple of them graze the palm of my hands. They prick. I lift my hand to a neat cut that is now bleeding. I fell the pain. I bite my lip. I asked for it. I wanted to test it, I wanted to know.

Now I am bleeding. Now I am in pain. Now I know.

As I watch the blood trickle, I gasp. At the similarity between this moment and my life. Especially the past few weeks. I do not wipe the blood. I do not wince. I welcome it. I hate pain. I avoid pain. This  time, I sit on the a stone and watch as my blood decides its not worth wasting itself and the bleeding stops. It does stop, eventually. The bleeding.

I wanted to experience . I was told, like the thorn, it will always have its sharp edges. But the thorn, oh the painful pleasure I longed for. I touched, I experienced. It pricked. I touched some more. I bled. I watched the bleeding, and hoped that the thorn would soften one day. That the touch of my hand, the gentle kiss of my lips, would convince it to, if only for a moment, not hurt.

But i loved the hurt that came with the pleasure. I loved that it hurt as much as it made me happy. Until my hand had no places left to poke. Until my hand was the picture of Dorian Grey. A shameful representation that was my careless abandon and shameless indulgence. My hand cried out to my heart. To stop. The heart experienced more fulfillment as my hand hurt. My mind? It was torn. Both such beautiful experiences, both so ineffably sublime. One more destructive.

The thorn had to go. It did not become soft with the evening breeze. Or I had to walk away. Walk away I did.

With my bleeding hand. The thorn, still as majestic. Still luring. Who gets lured by a thorn? Me, that's who. I see the whole in ashes. I see the the beauty in destroyed. I see the flower that was the thorn. And that's the softness i try to coax out.

And my hand, it still bleeds. But the bleeding, it does stop.

Read More

Tears in the Forest

It's 3:47 am. It's dead silent.  Dead. I never think of death as silent. It's always violent. Excruciating. Painful. Rarely is death calm. Peaceful. Like silence. The silence tonight.

The silence resides only but outside. A concept my heart cannot grasp. Oh, I do have a good understanding of silence. I lived there. I took it all in. Locked it up. In silence. The epitome of calm, blissful, happy. That is me. I smile. I am told my smile does things. Lights up rooms, infectious. Like a virus. Been told its naughty too. Like I am hiding something. How true. I do hide. Behind my eyes. My eyes and my smile.

When I cannot sleep, which is far too often, I play rain sounds. My friends make fun of me. But it works. Today I chose Rain in Forest. I close my eyes.

I am there

I am in that forest. Its' raining. I am lost. Every tree looks like the last one. The crunch of the leaves under my feet is too loud. Like an annoying ringing in my ears that just won't quit. Every dead leaf I step on is every dream, every plan I had that is now dead. I walk on the carcasses of what I saw my life to be when I played in this same forest. 

Then, sunshine permeated through the trees, to shine just the right amount of light, to give just the right amount of warmth. And when it rained, I lifted up my face, and caught with my curious tongue, the raindrops infused with sunshine. I cried. And when my tears mixed with the rain, I saw rainbows. I chased them. I never caught any, but the chase was the fuel that my life ran on.

Now the rain mixes with my tears and it stings. I reach out. I need to reach out. I touch, fleetingly. I grab a tree. I hug it. The wind wants to tear my feet off the ground. I need an anchor.  If only for a minute. The tree snaps. Next to me it collapses. Joins my dreams, as they get swept away by the waters that have now formed beneath my feet. I want to be my dead dreams. I want to be the shell that was my hopes. I want to be swept away. I want the rainwaters to carry me away, far away towards the oceans.

I want to drown.

I want to never want to come up for air. I want to be intoxicated by the ocean. I want to gasp, fight for air, so that when I get it, I will treasure it. Savor every inhale. Then dip my head back again...into the ocean of forgetfulness. 

I want meaning.

I want every tree to stand for something. I want that majestic tree that looks like it has been in this forest forever to stand for the love I have had. Not the one I have lost. That is that other tree with the torn bark, the decaying leaves, the sagging branches. I want that majestic tree to bend its branches ever so slightly towards me. Such that a leaf will brush my cheek, and I will feel its life, its strength go through me, like a bolt of lightening.  I want to sit at its foot, caress the roots that tell me of hardships, of survival, of endurance. I want to feel the pain with it, to taste the richness of the soil that feeds it, with my fingertips. I want to hear of the pain of growth, the pain of letting go of it leaves, every season, and the joy of growing others, and how it reconciles the pain of letting go and the ecstasy of getting new. And the freedom that comes with that.

I want freedom

Like that tree that rises above all others. The tree that knows that with being above all others also means the heat is stronger, the rain is harder. And yet, defiantly, it still rises. I want to speak with it of confidence. Of faith. Of believing in things not seen. The assurance of things hoped for. The conviction beyond a doubt of things dreamt of. And their ability to come true.

I want to believe

I look up. The rain beats harder. The forest is still dark. Eyes stare at me in the darkness. And trees, well, they are just trees. Moving as the wind dictates, the weight of the rain threatening to break them.

I want to cry

Not that the tears will get me out of here. But with them, they can take away the pain. The pain will mix with the rain, fall down on my dead dreams and unfulfilled plans. And together, they can flow to the place I can only hope my new dreams will one day take me.

Read More

Shred and Discard: Tales of A Coffee Shop

I woke up grumpy. Now this is not news to anyone who has to deal with me soon after my feet have touched the ground. My grouchiness is such that it annoys me. I will be angry that I am angry. Yeah, go figure. I have found out that two Redbulls will wrestle to the ground that feeling.

Someone told me I ought to get my thyroid checked. And given that the other health issues that plague me do have something to do with that gland, maybe I should. Chances are I will never. People tell me too many things.

I am sitting at Java. With my MacBookPro and a cup of tea masala. How bourgeoisie. How very 'I am a creative who gets inspiration from sitting in coffee houses and looking too busy to notice that you're watching me pretend to type something important'. I am as pretentious as all of these people in here. With their suits and newspapers and blackberries and tabs and Caran Dache fountain pen imitations that they never use because no one writes shit anymore.

Sip

This one woman, at 12 o'clock has been sitting here for a while. She found me here, still typing. From the corner of my eye, I saw her trying to hide the fact that she is asking the waitress what I was having. Why do we do that? Why can't we just point at the food on the next table and shamelessly say we want the same because it looks so darn good? Good manners, we think. But we are full of it. We apply manners depending on where we are. Who we think might be watching. He will shove you at a bus stop with his suit and briefcase that probably just carries photocopies of his waterbill. He will politely ask you to pass the salt at this coffee shop. Because out there, you are not important. You are having breakfast with an iPod touch in your ears and a MacbookPro infront of you? He will lower his voice and smile. Pretentious little *censored*

Sip

Back to Woman.

She decides against the full java breakfast I am having and settles for toast and eggs. She oscillates between her fork and her phone. Signs of a person uncomfortable being alone in a restaurant. Another thing that irks me. Why do we get or give, funny looks to people who just want to have a meal by themselves? We think they have no friends. We feel bad for them. We are the ones who deserve that pity. The ability to be by yourself is a gift. You are not trying to hide behind fake laughter at a dry joke your colleague just made. You are not trying to disguise your loneliness.

Sip.

She is done with her toast and eggs. She did not order a drink. I wonder if that little detail will bother me all day today. Why did the woman at the cafe not order a drink? Because bigger questions I would rather avoid. I will dwell on the mundane.

Look around the cafe. This guy behind me.  Why is he reading the obituary page? I will get back to him. One day.

Sip

Back to woman

Woman just left. Even before I finished analyzing her. Oh well.

Sip.

Cup empty. Now they will clear away the cup and leave my table devoid of any proof that I purchased anything. People who walk in will look at me and think I came here for the WiFi and cannot afford a cup of anything. The vapid things we worry about.They don't even have WiFi.

This day. I am stuck in traffic. I look out. Watch people. As I always do. One day, I will get arrested for it. This street guy. Pacing up and down on that middle section that divides a one way highway. I am sure there is a word for that. I am sure I am not interested in knowing what it is. He walks about 100 meters. Comes back. Walks again. He is crazy. I think. Because according to my cultured mind, only a crazy person would do that. Judgmental little thing I am. So are you. Comes back. Picks a piece of paper. Looks like a page out of magazine. It could be Forbes top 100. Who cares.

Glance around coffee shop. It's 9:25am. It's emptying out. Where do people go? I should follow one person one day.

He looks at the piece of paper. Intently. Gives the illusion of reading.  He drops it. He walks. Comes back to it.  Walks again. Traffic moves an inch. I don't. What difference does moving an inch make? I will move when there is space enough to actually move the equivalent of my car's length. Someone will hoot at me. I will ignore with indignation. I am that petty.

The sun is out. But its the sort of sun that is just bright without the warmth. I could write a whole post about that. Warmth-less sun. Like most relationships. How lucky I found parking right in front of the cafe! Every now and then, I get to look at my car.

He comes back. He stops. Glances at the paper again. With great annoyance, he  picks it. Shreds the piece of paper. With such vigor and purpose, it shocks me. I want to roll down my window and grab the pieces. Save them from scattering on the road and disappearing forever. Like catching tears of a loved one. I swear I can see his pain with every tear he makes. Tear the paper. Catch them like tears. Tear. Tears.

These two Caucasian women have just walked in. Each with an African baby. Go ahead Dark Angel. judge them. Next time. Too busy. They put the babies down. One starts screaming and running around the cafe. 

He walks away. Resolutely. And doesn't come back. The pieces are now scattered all over the road. Discarded. Punished.

I should probably order water. I want a Redbull.  I need to go buy shoes for a dinner coming soon.

What was in that piece of paper? What was the pull to it? Maybe, I think, it represented to him what was wrong with his world. It was bothering him. By how it was just sitting there. With no care in the world. While his fell apart. Something needed to take the blame. That paper. That was the culprit.

But why didn't he just walk away from it the first time? Because that's what we do? We keep going back to the source our problems?

Or maybe, because, he is crazy.

I have to pay the bill.

Read More

Of tadpoles, sharks, fish, honeypots, gutter and androids

Head and tail. That's what makes them. The epitome of non-complexity. The exact opposite of what our lives are. What we have made them to be. Tadpoles. The beginning, is what they symbolize.
Our beginnings. Simple, unmoved by the shark that is life. Head and tail. The beginning and the end. That simple. Yet it never is. The head calls for eyes. Eyes want to explore. See. Visions need to be processed.

Interpreted.

Thus starts the decline of the simple. Into questions, rationalizations, explanations. Wanting to know more. Wanting that more explained, examined. Always more. The need to touch, to feel. Because the eyes cannot convince the head. It need the fingers to touch.

The tail always being chased. By ourselves. By others that are within ourselves. The demons are that us, that we have made into sharks we always swim away from. Chasing our tails, scared of ourselves.

Like fish out of water.

We gasp for air, for a bubble that will burst to release that precious oxygen.  The head will turn, the tail will flip. A communication. You are running away from me, screams the tail. I am saving you, shouts the head. I am you, interjects the shark.

The sweetness. That comes from knowing that you can always outlast, outswim the shark. Like a pot full of honey. Your fingers dipping. Feeling the warmth, the slickness, the smoothness. That warmth. Envelopes you, consumes you. The texture. Like a tadpole. Swimming round and round. Looking for that spot. That with a bit a roughness, yet smooth. Like velvet. Dark velvet. With secrets. That place that is home, but so elusive. That place that is your heaven, and your hell. Because the existence of one creates the other. The darkness and the light. The head warns the finger. But the finger knows. It's been to the gutter. The filth of it is the reason it appreciates the honey.

Darkness has not given way to the light. Darkness has mixed with light and their union is the sweetness.  The tail flips. Shark is chasing. Again. Head and tail. Head no longer warning. The fingers have convinced. The warmth is real. The shark is chasing. Tail stops. Time slows. Everything in motion. All at once.  The realization that the shark might be real. The shock, the the pleasure, the awakening.

Almost robotic.

Read More

Dance of the Fly and the Twig

The Fly:

She skirted around, her light feathers gently teased by the breeze.  It loved to tease her, that breeze. Blowing with just the right amount of strength. Not too strong, but not too feeble. Enough to caress her. She focused on the twig. Brown. Signified defiance. Of elements. Seasons had come and gone, the sun had shone, burnt it, and given up. It had retired dejectedly. Each morning it rose, determined to burn off the twig. Each morning the twig bowed, took the challenge. Each evening, the dance came to an end. The twig smirked. The sun darkened.


The Twig:

Many rested upon his head. Many moved on, many hang around, hoping to get more of him. He was not looking to be owned. He loved the games the sun played with him. Everyday, he shook dew off his head and smiled. Another day for a game of death.  Then he spotted her.  He had spotted many of her kind. The kind that loved to hop without purpose. The kind that flirted. The wind was playing havoc with her delicate wings. Ever so slightly, her body shivered. Yet she fluttered on. At a distance. He sought her face. He loved faces. Eyes especially. Hers, he couldn't read. See, that is how his kind communicated. Eyes.

The Fly:

She had been watching him. She was intrigued. He consumed her. This defiant twig.  He was looking at her. He was bent towards her. She wanted to assume that was the wind. The wind here was bewitched. It made her do things sometimes. Like now. She felt a tremor. Started as a tiny shiver at her antennae, and grew gradually stronger as it moved to her chest and down to her thorax. Cursed wind!  He was wise. You can tell. By the harsh lines on his face. The remnants of leaves that hang loosely by his side. The pride, the glory, the pain, the victory, the loving, the losing. All in lines like blood veins on a muscular hand. She edged closer. Intoxicating.

The Twig:

He wasn't sure he wanted her close. She looked like the type of fly that attracted trouble. The one that made birds swoop and grab. The kind that made men approach with weapons. Beautiful trouble. She was not like the rest. She was…what was that word? Captivating. Yes, that was it. He forgot the sun. Forgot that it was near midday, when the sun called for reinforcement. He was exposed. He felt the heat was coming. And for a moment, he basked in that heat. Something felt different. The heat was not from the sun. He looked up. She was right on top of him. Her heat was stronger than that of the sun. More potent.

The Fly:

She had lost the will to fight it. He beckoned. His very being summoned her. That need to connect. She was hovering. He was yearning. She wanted. He craved. She longed. He desired. Her wings became weightless. In her mind, the world collapsed into a heap on the ground next to her. How was that possible? If the world had just collapsed, what ground did it land on? Nothing made sense. Only the pull towards him existed.

The Dance of the Fly and the Twig:

She landed. He buckled. Not at her weight. At the feeling. She was home. He was complete. She belonged there. And as the sun got hotter, and he begun to wither, his life seeped out of him into her.

They were one.

Read More