Fishermen become constellations in the ocean at night. I thought to myself. I was carrying someone else’s baby since the past hour. Just walking around, trying to get some air, and waiting for everything to sink in.
My brother proposed. I felt hot tears in my eyes but they never fell down until I saw my grandmother cry.
Something can be so real. I was so moved.
I had this vague notion at the back of my head that maybe I should stop putting things aside. That maybe even the tiniest flicker of interest I should blow up into a living passion.
I’ve always wanted to sing. Maybe I should sing more. I’ve always wanted soup for dinner. Maybe I should do that. Maybe I should laugh louder. Maybe I should finally read Dostoyevsky. Maybe I should wear my hair down often. Maybe I should give white shirts a chance. Maybe I should kiss him more. Maybe I should run more miles. Maybe I should climb the fuck out of that mountain. Maybe I should stop having plan B’s and just fucking confront and overcome.
I always thought and felt that there is a big mountain that I have to climb and only then I’d be worthy of this life. That it is too painful to live in the in-between. To be stuck. Perhaps the beasts behind this madness are all the reservations that I made for myself. The safe zone I carved out for myself.
Maybe I should end all these maybes. Because things can be real. And when they do become real they make me cry. Crying puts so much meaning in my life. That burning in my heart. That lump on my throat. That tightness in the skin between my eyes and the bridge of my nose. They all mean something. And I like who I become after I concede to all of them. Cleansed and ready. After the vulnerability, embarrassment, and all the judgment in the world. I feel cleansed and ready.
Happy almost new year.
It is five-thirty in the afternoon. From where I sit, I would think that it’s five AM had I crossed different time zones and day met day. Everyone had their eyes closed. I am the exception. And all I see is a small, illuminated exit sign.
I had a good weekend with my friend. Talking soft in speakeasy bars and laughing hard in many strangers’ backseats. We had this all planned out. The coming year would be a year of big decisions. The weekend was our season finale.
We set our gaze on larger than life ambitions. Unsure ones. Scary. But what else is life for? Be ambitious. Even if everything is stupid vague. Even if for every step that your heart wants to make your mind pulls you back. The apprehension is part of the process. The failure because of half-heartedness is part of the process. And learning from it is part of the process, too. Everything is important. No matter how marginal. No matter how crushing. Everything is important. At least I would like to think of it that way.
So carry on, I tell myself. I confront life’s mystery with this life that I rented from who put me where I am. Most days are just shit. Fucking shit. Ridiculous. Dreams not happening. Not having dreams at all. Some say all you have to do is stay focused on your dream and you’ll get there someday. What fucking dream? I don’t have one. But carry on, I tell myself. Because this life is mine. And if life is being a foggy, zigzag road, I’ll still hit the road and drive away. It’s the only way to justify.
I’m too fickle that my fickleness makes me laugh sometimes. The sad humor of a human in trance. I bet I am not alone in this. My friend, I’m telling you, let’s just go. Don’t forget to dress for the occasion. I heard mascara and red lipstick is like coffee for the face. Stay awake.
Several times, the past had beaten us up with its heavy hand. It unlocked secret doors and let out the foul smell of dead dreams. It embarrassed us in moments we thought we owned. It forced us to sleep and caused us to wake up drenched in sweat.
Ignorant of martyrdom, we chose to forgive it anyway. Even if it doesn’t want to. We made peace with it anyway not so it can own up to the sutures but so we can free ourselves from the madness and loathing. Only then the wound should heal.
In the present, we are scarred. But we wear these scars like badges. For love to oneself. Time and time again. And for love once and for all.
How brave must living be. It is rather paradoxical that something so delicate and pure can empower us to look even the wildest of beasts in the eye. To wear love as an armor to a war of blood and terror.
How incomprehensibly beautiful.
When all comes to an end and everything turns to dust, may we be the legacy that gilded angels always wanted to leave but never had the chance to. Scattered across time and space, may our stories of love lacing and engulfing hate be remembered as if words to the first of first lullabies.