These bubbles of confusion and longing that are churning up from
some hidden corner of my soul, they leave me craving for a remedy.
I'm broken, you see. These wide crevasses on the canvas of my heart have veiled
themselves from the world. A spotless blank parchment is all they see. Who
wants to examine the small gaps that the fake layer of clarity veils? How will
they? No one looks at it from close enough. Some did and it horrified them, you
know. The hideous nature of the scar, the ever so repelling rotten tissues of broken dreams? A doctor's
medicine didn't help.
"I'm afraid, madame. The wounds are too deep. They'll never
heal." through sea shells I heard the shipwrecked man whispering my fate.
He was a doctor, some said.
"Isn't there a remedy? A cure? Anything?" I questioned,
a gush of cold wave hitting my legs.
"There is. There is. Plastic surgery."
And so it was. A thin layer of flesh and the ever so ignorant
world would forget that it ever happened. I won't blame them because until
recently I had convinced myself that it had. Oh god bless my delusional self.
But then the canvas started to wear off. How could it not? What
except the great wall of china will not succumb to the constant wear and tear,
constant disappointment, constant rejection? Not a heart, atleast. Not mine,
I thought it had healed. Then I took a closer look. And I was no
longer astonished why the scars drove away the onlookers. I realized that the
scars are too prominent now and even though the world cannot see it, I feel the
paws of the injury clawing deeper into my heart with each passing day, I can
see them peeping through the small crevasses in the canvas and its not long until they will be gaping at everyone with wide eyes.
I am afraid, I am no longer beautiful from within. A life time
ago, when you were here, that was all that mattered. I never let the insecurity
of not being the prettiest take over me. But now, I am losing my inner beauty,
as you called it. And I'm afraid that before I meet you I would have turned
into a hideous monster and you will not recognize my anymore. You won't even
recognize which of the innumerous scars were gifted by you. I'll never heal, I
am afraid. I have always been this way.
I take a deep breath and let time play its last cards. As I close
my ragged eyes, I see you standing on the shore with me, our laughters echoing
through sea shells, whispering to each other for help. The warm waves touch our
feat, the sun shimmers on the wide expanse of water, my scars are wide open,
but they don't repel you. You are not horrified. You instead stand there
looking at me, and it is like we are meeting for the first time. The scars will
never heal, I know. But as long as you are here, there is something extremely
beautiful about the way they stare at you, compassionately, the way your glance
soothes them. I don't mind being a wreck, I don't mind being broken. As long as
you believe that my scars do not define me,That scars are beautiful and so are the stories behind them.
To the forbidden pleasure and the guilt, I feel I've lost myself to the innocent deceptions that the world had to offer. I've lost myself to the thumping of my confused brain. I've lost myself to the possibilities of what could have possibly been mine, but never was. I have lost myself to the memories I clinged on so desperately too. That was never enough though. Someone had given up on them while I held on, or may be they had not treasured them enough to give up on them in the first place.
Constant disappointment, the never ending despair and the darkness that follows after every sunrise. I have lost myself to incomplete endings, to conversations that never happened, to words that were never spoken, to stories that cried, to impossibility of possibilities, to myself. I've lost myself to the world that should have been ours and I am stuck in a world that 'is'. The only way you can find me is through my writings, in these words. Words that bridge the gap between the starking realities. You'll find me noticing the tail of a shooting star. No, I don't wish on shooting stars. I try to decipher their language of loss. Wishing on stars is cliched and yet, we mortals find pleasure and joy in hoping that our dreams and wishes will turn into reality. What an irony, planning scripts of happiness through someone's language of loss.
Did you look for me? Did you find me there? See, I've pressed on with care, hoping it would pass. Unapologetically baffled and estranged, numb and apathetic, mundane and half dead. A path overshadows with peels of hopelessness, stumbling across a broken road, left with what is solely mine to bear. I amble on without care, hoping I'll find along the way, a part of me that I had lost. Not long ago.
Oops, I forgot someone was looking for me. I'm sorry. Did I waste your time? I hope not. Its a difficult business, filling the gaps, you know.
See, I am losing you again. Its been happening too often these days. Forgive me. Forget me. Don't try to find me. I won't let you find me. I won't let you know the state of my mind. Its boomeranging between walls of apathy, lunacy and confusion. My life is a long struggle of trying to gain control over situations that are not under my control.
*Sigh.* I know, it doesn't make sense to you, doesn't make sense to me either. You know, when I wander away into this land of nothingness, I realize all I need is a blank parchment of paper and a bottle of ink. Next time, if you want to find me, come prepared with some. Or if I dwindle into nothingness and fade away like the day light, find me here - in my words.