Death. I am not too obsessed with this word, but I am always pondering about it. I think I died for a few days, the thirteen days when I didn't write a single word, like I lynched my soul on a pole of gold. But I saw someone I love die today. Not witnessed exactly, but she died and i remember being in her arms and loved. Few tears fell down instantly in shock and sudden grief, after that it was alright. Old people die, that's what they do.
I feel I have this illness. A kind of sickness, which makes me think of my departure the moment I enter. The city I live in and love, there are moments when I imagine myself leaving those streets and roads forever, to death or a better opportunity. Or when I am in the arms of a man, I see myself loving him whole heartedly and then in that very instant see myself drying up when he's gone. Or when I am sitting on my own and thinking of all those who love me and I have loved, I think of how few more decades and we'll be separated by death. And today when I saw my grandmother pass away, all I could feel was the sheer damage and devastation my mother's death would bring to me. I thought of that, and wailed.
There must be something soothing and pleasing in this melancholia that I keep pushing myself back and forth into it. Or maybe I keep preparing myself for the reality of the thought that alone is what everyone will ultimately be. I might not drink or smoke alone, might not even live alone, but we do die alone. And that is not sad, it is liberating and peaceful, how long will we cling on to people for happiness.
I started detesting alcohol. But now I want to feel it in my mouth and tongue, burning my throat and firing down my system with a chill so strong that it burns. I want its heat to be visible on my face and pull down my eyes, and then spread them wide in sudden rush of lust. Then feel unfulfilled and soothe with further doses, because helplessness never heals, bandage it good enough and you might just hide it.
I feel I have this illness. A kind of sickness, which makes me think of my departure the moment I enter. The city I live in and love, there are moments when I imagine myself leaving those streets and roads forever, to death or a better opportunity. Or when I am in the arms of a man, I see myself loving him whole heartedly and then in that very instant see myself drying up when he's gone. Or when I am sitting on my own and thinking of all those who love me and I have loved, I think of how few more decades and we'll be separated by death. And today when I saw my grandmother pass away, all I could feel was the sheer damage and devastation my mother's death would bring to me. I thought of that, and wailed.
There must be something soothing and pleasing in this melancholia that I keep pushing myself back and forth into it. Or maybe I keep preparing myself for the reality of the thought that alone is what everyone will ultimately be. I might not drink or smoke alone, might not even live alone, but we do die alone. And that is not sad, it is liberating and peaceful, how long will we cling on to people for happiness.
I started detesting alcohol. But now I want to feel it in my mouth and tongue, burning my throat and firing down my system with a chill so strong that it burns. I want its heat to be visible on my face and pull down my eyes, and then spread them wide in sudden rush of lust. Then feel unfulfilled and soothe with further doses, because helplessness never heals, bandage it good enough and you might just hide it.
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