Summer is on the brink of another blue transformation. The hair on the head fall as autumn trees lose their crimson leaves, with regret and pain. The real wonder is, if trees have memory, do they forget about their lost parts which they may have provided with all their saps and energies to nurture. Well, who knows! They may cry in the disquiet of dark nights and hence deceive scientists with what they understand and explain as the production of carbon dioxide. Who knows!
Anyway, I am losing my mind along with the hair. You must pardon my digressions and senseless deviations. I am in the middle of couple of experiments about life and existence but I must confess that it is too early to talk about it. Do you remember the young Laila you loved and you used to sip her poise with your eyes for hours? You might have forgotten but I still remember her… the shattered glimpses of her poise. Unrefined, raw and boldly crude in every act. I still fancy about the days when we used to sip water like an ethereal drink from each other’s lips. As if that was the only thing we were created for. I still can shut my eyes and touch your face with the fingers of my blurred imagination. Your honeyed, Champagne coloured eyes, long Turkish nose, upper lip covered with thick moustache which hiddes two white pearls in it, and the lower lip made of delicate floral folds. I still can touch your face with the cold fingers of my imagination. There are moments when it hazes away. When I try to sleep during the day, despite all my imaginative effort, I can’t see you with my eyes shut. Frustrated of this repetitive exercise I believe you are a companion of nights but I also know in the folds of my heart that it’s not true. We spent our lives in bright sunny days more than we could spend our nights together. I memorized your features, your perfect body with all its curves, curves of a sea wave, during the afternoons of pure pleasure. How could I believe in such a thought now that you are there only to lull my thoughts during nights and comfort me towards sleep? How could I reduce you to a mere thought now, after those many years? May be it is my imagination that is a perfect companion of my lonely nights. May be it is the insanity I have internalized in an endeavour to escape the undesired light around me. May be I desire only darkness around me, around us. An eternal darkness with long limbs and pale eyes that can burn down the dead desire of companionship in my thirsty brain.
When the nights get too dark, too grotesque and too blurry to show the light of stars, which in fact, even in bearable times, keep smiling at the ordinariness of the earthlings, you try to forget whatever little you know.
Stench of the garbage,
It was born into,
Is enough to suffocate it.
The body is rotten,
To the core of its existence,
But the pretense exists
For the fear of being found out
Is too strong to shed the shell off.
The shame of the street,
That stinks of unprotected gutters,
naked, malnourished, and fearless children playing with nothing but pebbles,
The anxiety of being singled out,
And above all,
The horror of denying
What was expressed as its impression
Of defiance and rebellion,
What was mistook as its pride
In blood and belonging,
All is a burden for it to breathe…
It bleeds… It still bleeds…
It is not a human anymore
But cannot let the shame fall off its shoulders.
In an utter desire to disappear from the fringe of my own sight, I write this to you…
I know I have not been a good child unlike your other children. Now, when I feel that I am left all alone by those who claimed to stay there, to provide me with their shoulders to put my head on, and now when there are only those left around who have never withhold themselves from adding onto the toxicity of this already lethal stigma which we call life, I only desire to be with you. The distance has always played a cruel actor in the drama of my life. It already has snatched many precious people away from me, and now it is forcing me to bear the similar kind of loneliness for the thoughts that connect your affection with my ragged being.
I confess, in the darkest of times, that I need another life of the kind to learn how would I breathe through this one. The life which is according to our world or, maybe the life, which is appropriate in the other world; the real world waiting for us out there.
It is so bitter that I have begun to ignore the darkness. The metaphor which has played the role of almost an eternity for my mortality. I cannot even see, rather sense, darkness anymore. It is just my breathing which has kept me bothering about gazillion useless yet valuable issues. I have shared this plenty of times before, not with you, not with anyone else but, with him that I don’t want to breathe anymore. And, I know somewhere in the brains of my heart that it will keep moving forward for it has a few more nightmares to offer during the dazzling daylight and a few more scars to proffer within an ugly facade of salvation.