Colored Memories of a Museum.

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afraid to fail but,

righteously demanding,

your attention to

arrive, somewhere but not here.

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slowly flowers sprout under her eyes, watered by the tears hiding behind her ducts.

slowly, but surely (like they like to say), the poison mixes with her veins, blood turns blue and her heart pumps out the rainbow.

slowly, ever so slowly, color returns -- but at the cost of what, dear one?

at the cost of what?

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dried flowers sit alongside long forgotten words, promises once made to herself and then to others. she flips past it, turns to a new page.

"if my thoughts were like an ocean, would another drop count?"

maybe, dearest, such waterways are too big, too vast, too giganormous to care?

but thankfully, the page has yet to learn to converse. instead, it stares as the girl places another half-dead flower. it can't help but to try again. making another feeble attempt, it screams -- release your pain, free yourself. then awaits with baited breath. maybe, maybe this time she'll see why the page is fluttering without a breeze. maybe she'll learn to listen.

but she turns the page instead. arrests herself to a new ill-formed, half-assed thought.

another thought, another forgotten memory. another page with a rotting flower.

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hope. hope is stronger than faith.

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what's stronger than faith?

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in another time, this was easy. typing. spilling. writing shit. but suddenly it isn't. and I find myself trying to chase that feeling of fulfilment it once lent to me. today - and on many prior days - this has felt frustrating. this has felt unnatural. this has felt like a purge that my body is not ready to put out there. this has felt like window dressing a wound that wants to hide but be on display. tada!

you know I stopped listening to music a while back? even if I try, I feel like I just exist outside of it, and I don't know why? no, it hasn't come up in therapy. no, I don't know if its linked to my mother's death or... maybe it's my own soul that is dying. I don't know what function my inner child serves or what wack-head version of healing will heal me. I don't know if gymming is enough or if its too draining? I don't know if my dog love me or uses me. I don't comprehend nutrition and honestly, I don't know why my body will just not let go of the emotions it so carefully tries to store in different corners of itself -- as if my organs are wells meant to store a fuck tonne of water!

basically what I am trying to say is that its hard to fix yourself.

fuck you, coldplay. you go fix you first.

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tell me why its so hard to say no to the weeping of your own heart?

or do I mean yes?

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when lightning hit

the sky turned crimson. the earth sang a song for its neighbours, and the rivers swam their way to the edge of the land.

searching, looking and asking for you.

were the elephants trampling the earth too scary to look at? or was slipping on the green moss we'd carefully bred too eclectic for your taste? did you prefer the warmth of the basement - or the coldness of the attic? was the wind too salty for your tongue? or the air too heavy with regret?

tell me, why does lightening scare you so, little one?

and why didn't thunder follow in its steps today?

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who knows what the sun thought when it glowed pink instead of red? maybe it thought it could lighten your love. erase its hue, smudge it with a shallow color.

but tell me, when it just began - was your love of a bubblegum pink variety? or was it some strange concoction deeper than crimson - like fresh blood spat out by a vampire nursing your veins. maybe it was a heady potion witches and wizards wouldn't dare to taste lest cupid's arrow dipped itself in it first?

really, tell me - what was this love? it wasn't this. was it?

i think the sun is wrong today.

it is not pink. it can't be pink.

it is red. it is red. it is red.

isn't it?

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i wanted to tell you that the earth didn't shatter when your shoulder hunched. when your feet crumbled the petals, a dog ran but its impact wasn't strong enough to cause a rift in the earth.

i wanted to tell you that i saw an elephant scamper through on a concrete road the other day.

and that time when you cleaned my drunken vomit off your shirt, i wanted to tell you that i saw a red balloon float up in the sky just outside our apartment.

that your collar smelt like a muddied rose.

your eye, an uncut diamond, recently plucked.

i wanted to tell you that shapes and forms sneak together to form a pattern.

but you've been too eager to turn away. too tired to talk. and too weak to hear the words.

when will you learn, love?

to forget, and then forgive? to remember and then reminisce.

tell me when will you bend and pick up the crumbled petal you so brutally trampled just yesterday?

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Hi friend!

WELCOME BACK :O

holy moly

does this ring a bell

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Nebulous belly buttons

Sink through

The catapult of your breath.

Slow - steady

Exhale for two

And inhale for one.

Repeat that question, dear

I didn’t hear it just yet.

Oh smile your fears away

Because the sinking warmth

Of your belly is enough

Today.

“Do I exist in a wad of dust?”

But, love, there’s no answer today - not just yet.

Other than the particles

Of your very own breath.

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Deep hollows of pain hide under the smooth caress of the beach you step on. The ocean roared in its hunger and ate away at the rocks. Chewing and then spitting whatever was left of it. So, remember, the next time you gloat and run across the beach; remember. The wind howled in pain and sacrificed the rocks. The wind is the selfish little beast. And you breathe it everyday.

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Questions

What's stronger than tears?

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a honeycomb of reckless emotions swirl within the intestines of some unholy sage. were oxymorons were (n)ever in vogue till today?

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unhealthy strokes of life have found ways to come and sleep in your deepest locales. they creep and slither within this catatonic womb of endless sleep. but may, today, your blood win the battle and these strokes just remain helplessly asleep. 

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onwards we march, under crumbling stars, amidst dilapidated cement. for, you stood there once. you looked at me, and the stars shone. the street rose in greeting. flowers blossomed under the collar bone of your neck. there was a time, when we spoke of spiritualities, philosophies and the rest. another time, we were silent in our gaze.  we stood there together. and today, much like the rest of the days, since you’ve but become a ghost of yourself, we march onwards hence, together.