Saturday, February 25, 2012


I dare you to move.

What do I do with you if I know you're soon going to be another myth in my treasure trove? Can I quickly steal your essence and hide you in the darkest corners of my heart where not a single clock, a cruel bearer of time, be able to find you? Or take your soul you lent me for a day and pretend like you never gave it when you ask for it back. I could cheat I guess, into making you believe what I believe (because it's all make believe anyway), or keeping us hidden from the musical notes that slowly but methodically change our song to something that you eventually won't recognize. But I won't do it. Shockingly, even after all this time, I still have a nagging conscience. Hate that thing. 

I could write endless stories about the inevitability of heartbreak, but what do you do when your soul crushes to an irreparable degree. What do you do, when your family, your friend, your love, your habit, your mind, your soul-- threatens to get up, with only so much as a single warning, and simply walk out of your state of being. If there's one thing that's worse than actually being crippled, it's the thought of its pending arrival. And so you leave me hanging, until I pull the chord. Until I do it to myself.

Of course in that game I played with fire, I won a lot of lotteries, but what I also thought I'd win was the Jackpot that mattered to me the most. The one that all the other players ridiculed. But for the sheer desire of it all, I lost. I thought mine would be a white horse, turned out it was shining, molten brown with streaks of jet black. I was told, I'd still worship him, like I would a white. And nobody would understand it.

So here I am. And there you are, from where I can conveniently worship what was meant to be mine so forgive me if I'm still a bit insolently stubborn about letting it go. And there everyone else is, neither understanding, nor comprehending. The soothsayers had their way. But there's so much more to this that is making it almost, almost impossible for me to wrap it up in a neat bundle and not let a single tear stray.
You're lying to me even now. You can't lie to me as much as you can lie to yourself. And I watch you with a sad smile while you still try so desperately to rationalize, to tell yourself more than tell me, that it's the right thing to do. That things must go the way as they have been pre-ordained. They have to. Or nothing will make sense, there will be no order. And that's why we can never really meet. Because I rejoice in every little grain of disorder. In every antithesis wherever there's a thesis. In every broken barrier in an organization. In every revolt against a structure. In every fallen leaf where there's a tree. In every love against hate. 

It would have made no sense to you nor would the spell have lasted for very long if I ran away at break-neck speed. But I needed to slowly withdraw, to make you notice, excruciatingly, what I was doing. I do not know if it tears you as much as I think it does, but if I'm right and it does, all you have to do is call me back while I'm here. While I'm still recuperating. Because when the healing process is over, somebody will snatch me away. And I say this not out of any overconfidence or smugness that you may so easily attribute it to. But out of fear. 

Save me before your armor refuses to dispatch any knight-like qualities to you anymore. I'm ordinary, but soon you will be too. But if you save me. I'll be able to save you too. 

I love you.