Ramblings (The Wind)

Sometimes writing is like the wind.

You can feel it on your skin, in your lungs.
It gives you some special form of life. But the times when
the right words just won’t come out; when your pen
(or keyboard) can’t quite spill out the exact sensation
that tingles and endears your mind, it’s also the same as the wind.

In that you can embrace it, you know it’s there,
but you can’t quite capture it. It boasts in its intangibility,
but you love it, you need it.
It keeps you sane and is a key affirmation that a very
specific and vital part of you still works.
Still is in operation.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to say here,
but I’m sure some writers out there can relate.

Freak Show

Hey! Urm… Hi. Well, I guess I was just calling ’cause…

I think I lost something. Something crucial. And I figured you’d be able to help me find it.

Remember that time when… Well we’d just met for the first time, right, and I saw you looking at me. Actually, no, – you caught me staring at you. I mean, we were both pretty drunk, I doubt you can remember.

But anyhow, I can.

I’m usually shy. I’m normally quiet. But that night… when we met, something changed. Something came alive in me, or something died. To this day I’m not quite sure. But something definitely changed.

Everyone else fell asleep, remember? It was just me and you up. We talked for some hours. I told you how much I hate boys except the nerdy type with the thick-rimmed glasses and Italian accents. You said you liked quirky girls. And I blushed.

We smoked a dozen cigarettes and stared at the moon and talked about how strange mankind is. Funny, coming from me, right? I mean I’m probably the strangest of them all!

Did you ever like that about me, that I was strange? Or were you just being nice? I won’t be mad… Be honest.

You know what else I just remembered? That time when you invited me over and you slipped off my Nirvana top as we watched a Tim Roth flick. I was really into the movie but I couldn’t help myself as you breathed down my neck. I’m usually too shy for that kind of stuff but I couldn’t resist.

You asked what’s wrong and told me girls do these things together all the time. Lip-biting as I clawed your back with a lustful passion. Driven insane with this wild…desire!

Did you feel it too?

I’m not too sure where you are right now. But I’d really appreciate if you’d help me. I know I’m a little annoying and very awkward, but I promised myself to stop being such a burden to people. Especially you.

I’m a burden sometimes, right?
Am I too much?

I guess I just get a little afraid. I was always afraid of driving people away with my weirdness.

I don’t want to lose… you.

I have no idea where I’ve gone with this, but yeah, I need you to help me find something. That something you straightaway saw in my eyes.

You remember that? Is it a little creepy that I remember on that night when we first met you told me you saw something in my eyes that you liked?

It’s been a while since anyone’s seen anything they like in me. Myself included. So I was just curious. Could you help me find that something? When I look inside the mirror, I can’t find it. I don’t see it.

I feel terrible. Like a mess. I’m on my eleventh cup of coffee today and it’s only 3pm. I’ve run out of cigarettes but I feel too fragile to go outside. I feel like the sun will stop shining or some butterfly’s wings will stop fluttering if I go outside. My shrink will be here at any moment now and I think I’ve taken too much Xanax.

How the bloody hell did I start blabbering about butterflies and Xanax? Typical me, right? I can never just get straight to the point. I’ll go around the world trying to explain my weird emotions and social-anxiety but never get to the damn point!

Anyway, I doubt you’ll even listen to this. I don’t blame you. I talk a lot of random, irrelevant shit most of the time anyway. But if for some reason you feel to, gimme a call when you get this.

The Killer

imagesShe climbed out of the bed in an instant, and lit a cigarette. That’s when I knew I had struck a nerve. Brutally. I watched her stand by the window where the gleaming moon lit up one side of her face.

I watched how she tilted her head back every now and then, and would dab the corner of her eye with her ring finger whenever she felt a tear seeping out. She sniffed, and cleared her throat as if she were about to utter something. But nothing came. Her quivering lips juxtaposed with the still, inanimate expression that was glued to her face.

My mind couldn’t reason a logical thing to say to her. Or if there was anything to say. So I let the oppressive silence squash us both. It was an unpleasant scene to watch, and yet at the same time, be a part of.

But it happens sometimes. You’re either one person or the other in scenarios like this; either you’re the person crumbling, trying to clasp yourself together as you struggle to digest how you let someone you love and trust hurt you. Someone you never in a million years would have thought would, or even was capable of doing so.

Your fingertips feel static. Your heart pounds your chest so hard your whole torso quakes. A mere moment of sanity and clarity appears to be so out of reach. You remain immobilised and defeated by a hollow but yet desperate emotion. You feel something once flamboyant turn to a cruel grey and wither inside you. 

Or, on the other hand, you’re the causer of it all. And the audience. And The Killer. 

Like A Stream

mountain_stream

I woke up for no particular reason that morning. At dawn to be more precise. My whole apartment was wrapped in silence, and a thick, stale air lingered. 

I cracked open the windows to a cool august breeze that infiltrated my humid bedroom, then downed the remains of a now warm glass of whiskey which rested on my bedside table. It was a Saturday. At this point I’d usually light up and smoke. And at this point I’d usually wake her up with a cold glass of water and a kiss on her forehead.

But this time was different. I did no such thing. I’d decided to quit smoking two weeks earlier, and she was no longer here. She’d gone. And was never to return.

I looked eagerly at the side of the bed where she used to lay. It was void and cold. It’s like everything in the Universe knew something belonged there. But she was no longer that thing. It was an unsettling sight to bear.

I was afraid for some weird reason. A very specific and unorthodox dimension of afraid. Perhaps afraid is the wrong word altogether. But it was an exceedingly disconcerting hunch.

Unlike all my other partners, she was special. Special how? Special like an unchanged landscape. Special like some unexplored cavern. Special like a young, beautiful virgin. And that’s what unsettled me.

It’s strange, I know.

It all began last summer. We’d met at a function a mutual friend had organised. Nothing fancy, just a little drink-up.

The friend who’d organised the event introduced us to each other. The two of us got to talking for an hour or two. Slurred speech. Boisterous laughter. Mislaid glaring into one another’s eyes. 

She grabbed my hand and told me to come. I smiled my way through clumps of drunken strangers as she excused our way to the door. We found ourselves outside alone. The cool summer night air was still, and loud hip-hop songs boomed in the background. Everything was as distant as the stars above us. 

I pulled out two cigarettes. I don’t usually smoke, she said. But we both smoked in a silence that descended daintily.  

I remember waking up the next morning with a throbbing headache and thinking about her. Her smile, the warm feel of her long, slender fingers. I couldn’t remember much of our intoxicated verbiage, though, but I did remember exchanging numbers. She was fun and pretty, I told myself. I’d definitely like to see her again.

I imagined love being a deep, expansive ocean, and I was a small boy on the shore gently nearing towards it. Toeing the edge of the waters. Pondering whether or not to take a dive. I wasn’t quite in it, but I knew there was a sense of replenishing, quenching, somewhere in its depths. 

And this is how she was special. You see, all my ex-partners are back to the way I found them. Using the phrases they used to, dating the type of guys they used to, going to all the places they used to. When they were with me, I changed them.

Yes, I changed them. Like a bendy ruler; you can bend it, twist it, fold it, but it always forms back to a straight(ish) ruler. And that’s how all my ex-partners are. 

But she was different. Special. She didn’t need me to shape her. She was formless. She was like a stream running down a mountain; whatever it picks up along the way, it picks up. Whatever it ditches along the way, it ditches. But it still keeps going.

She was whatever she wanted to be. Sometimes I feel like this aspect of ‘special’ to her should have lessened my desire for her. But it didn’t. It gave me a different sensation I can’t quite put into words. 

But when she left, all I became was afraid. Afraid at the fact that she could be doing anything, with anyone – something and somewhere new, with someone new, unlike my other partners. I was afraid at the fact that she’d trickled so far from reach.

Free and ecstatic. Like a stream.

Sinking [some kind of poetry]

Vikings(still)sinkingI was sinking. Gently and forever. Just sinking.

As I was sinking, I thought about her.

I thought about how that single dimple pierced on her left cheek would almost glow along with her smile. About how she laughed, beautifully and free, and didn’t care how uncute everyone else thought it was. About how well-spoken she was and how she’d deny it whenever I teased her about it.

We had known each other for as long as I can remember. We both always had this hunch that we’d end up together, and stay together forever.

It was a naked type of relationship.

By naked, I mean we hid none of our facets from each other. She was entirely herself around me, and I around her.

There was nothing to hide.

I’d never seen her bare thighs, and I often only imagined her breasts and daydreamed about touching her nipples.

Cold and soft.

But the most naked I’d ever seen her was mentally and emotionally.

We never did become a couple, though. But we gripped tightly onto a piece of each other. Forever and always.

We didn’t rush anything. There was nothing to chase; nothing to prove. Or to question. We simply let time carry us smoothly.

Like a fluffy cloud in the delicately blue sky.

We used to float. Until things changed.

Then I started sinking

I just kept sinking.

And sinking.

A Happier Ending

I struggled to write this piece.

In fact, what I really should say is, ‘I’m struggling to write this piece.’ My brain just wasn’t ready to write it. And if I may be quite honest, I was almost afraid to.

I did everything I could; I tidied my room, had a shower, ate a good breakfast, drank plenty water, read, put on some smooth jazz, stared at the ceiling, phoned some distant relatives. Everything I thought I could do to get me to start writing this post.

Except actually writing it.

The reason I hadn’t begun this post up until now was the very same reason I ended up starting it: the fact that I just couldn’t find a suitable way to write it. I wanted to find the right words and the best method for this post. I wanted it to be just right. Short and sweet. But maybe there are no right words, and isn’t a best method.

I felt weirdly obligated to get something – anything – down before the New Year. It was like I owed 2014 a review.

I almost felt guilty for not being able to write. Like that attendee at a funeral who’s praying vehemently in his heart that he doesn’t get asked to give a speech in honour of his deceased friend. Not because he doesn’t want to, or because he has no words. But simply because he can’t. In this incident it isn’t the death of a friend though, it’s the death, or rather, end of a year.

So I just started writing the damn thing. It won’t be perfect. Maybe at best, it just escapes being awful. But the important thing is that it’s written.

I guess I’d like to begin this post with a reoccurring, though, somewhat explicitly apparent thought: that we’re all still here. We’re all a part of today. A part of the majority that get to witness the beginning of a new year.

Whether you spent the countdown alone in your apartment, whether you spent it on a memorable night out; whether you had a terribly tragic year or whether it was the greatest 12 months of your life – you’re still here. You lived to tell the tale.

And in saying that, we should all show gratitude. We’ve all (in a very specific sense of the word) successfully completed another 365 page story. Every page entailing its own numerous reasons to give up, and countless, though sometimes unseen, narrowly escaped opportunities to die.

But you didn’t. You’re here.

My year was… crazy. Full. Eventful. No so much in terms of activity, but more so in regards to emotion and understanding.

2014 beat me up. Broke me down. Then left me stranded and alone. It was harsh, and at times desolate. I started the year as one person, and left it as someone else. Someone different.

2014 swallowed me in the middle of my very own Great Depression.

It began while I was living away from home in London. Life on the surface seemed to be going decently; I had a little money, I was free from my parents’ nest, and I had a gorgeous girlfriend. Everything was okay. Except me.

I was far from okay, I was anything but okay. I wanted to die. I told no one, though. Everyone thought I was just as happy and acquitted as them. My girlfriend at the time had clues, but I never fully told her I was suffering terribly from a self-destructive depression.

I broke up with her twice solely because I didn’t want to hurt her. Or disappoint her. I was afraid. I couldn’t feel. I had no emotion besides pain, and desolation. And so I was no longer whom she had fallen in love with. I was a ghost. An empty, decaying shell.

I accepted that depression was a real thing, and I was one of its unfortunate victims. I didn’t figure I’d make it out of 2014. But I didn’t care.

By the time around my birthday in May, I had no one. I’d managed to make my girlfriend leave me. My old friends all gave up on me as they no longer recognised who I was. My family were like strangers to me. I was so distant from everything and everyone.

But it was not until I lost everything (including my mind and emotions), it was not until I found myself entirely alone, it was not until I had exhausted chasing after temporary highs and satisfaction that I eventually found myself with nowhere to turn to but within myself.

The first 6 months of 2014 were so incredibly lonely. It left a scar on my soul. I can never erase the impression that the loneliness and despair inflicted. But like one song says; How stubborn are the scars when they won’t fade away / or just a gentle reminder that now are better days?

All in all, I will never despise my discontentment. It made me who I am today and positioned me where I am. It made me hungry for joy. It taught me to love myself when everything else around me crumbles and people disperse.

It wasn’t a case of looking for joy, or even creating it; it was merely a matter of unveiling it. It was a matter of facing my depression. Addressing it head-on. Embodying it, along with all its minions – anxiety, stress, despondency – instead of running from it. I had to tackle it. And win.

It wasn’t a sudden thing, it was a journey. Ridding myself from depression took time and effort, as well as reflection, desire, sometimes more discontentment, persistence, self-love, and many other things.

It took an entire transition of mindset. Each day for five months I had to wake up and tell myself I love myself, I love my life. I had to show gratitude. I had to learn about this person I was, and all his emotions and thoughts, and accept it all. And all the things I didn’t like about him, I had to change.

I had to remind myself that…

In this life, as close as everything and everyone seems, you are all you have. You are only you. As swift as the world may be revolving, you have to live at your own pace. Digest each day one at a time. Remove yourself from everything, and return to yourself.

Know yourself, know your abilities, learn to handle your emotions. Find out what matters to you, what’s important and of substance to YOU.

Shape yourself, don’t let society or your negative perception of your circumstances determine who you are and how you feel. YOU are in control of the way you feel, and with enough desire and understanding, you are also in control of your circumstances.

And I can say that’s been my biggest discovery of 2014. Myself. One of the most difficult to upkeep but most liberating steps to take is knowing, accepting, and loving yourself. And improving yourself.

In 2015 I wish only to know more and more about myself, and about the world. There’s something about knowledge and understanding that seems far more precious and eternal than material possessions.

I wish only to explore, to share, to love, to learn, to live. To read books, to write books, to grasp onto truth, to embrace my emotions, to clasp onto every minute of my life while it’s there, and to just evolve. Mentally. Perceptually.

Let’s not let another year pass us by without us being able to account for what we’ve done. Without us leaving our comfort zones and chasing the horizon that so enticingly but tauntingly whispers our name. Without knowing who we really are.

Yes, it sounds cliché, but as I’ve also come to realise in 2014, the more cliché and “cheesy” life lessons tend to be the more relevant, most effective, but least practiced.

Happy New Year.