Mors Certa Hora Incerta

And I like writing by starting with an and cause it seems like I’m having a conversation but the words come out through my hand.

[anthony-samaniego]

vlady's closet

[mercurial-peevish]

&

Do you remember how soft we were when we wrote. When we bled onto a blank canvas, when we stained the tips of our fingers with all the words we couldn't say.

[mercurial-peevish]

&. Always and. Even when you die it doesn't end. Always on. Never off. Going round and round and round.

How have we become the very thing we said we wouldn't. Didn't you say love was forever and yet here we are, redefining what forever meant. Conditions. Always conditions imposed by people who don't follow their own rule book.

I don't want to play anymore. I don't know the rules and everytime I learn them you change them and I can't keep up.

I don't want to play anymore.

But. &. Always and. Even when you die it doesn't end. Always on. Never off. Going round and round and round.

Pass me the rule book.

[mercurial-peevish]

&.

Rubber gloves exist in pairs but i only wear one so in the end I’m left with a pile of lefts. I could find an alternative use for them. The internet is of course filled with creativity or those 5 minute crafts that no one takes seriously but instead I wear the wrong glove on the right hand and stay awkwardly swiping at dust and dirt that never quite seems to go away.

&.

Blackout blinds are great until you realise you never measured them quite right so there’s the tiniest gap through which sunlight finds its way. And it doesn’t quite bother you. Not really. Because without it you’d never see the tiny specks of dust dancing away.

&.

Aren’t we all just dancing shadows in someone else’s memory. And when memories stop the dancing stops. The shadow melts into the darkness with all the other forgotten shadows and the darkness is all that remains. I don’t mind being old but I do mind being forgotten. Forgetting. All these dancing moments becoming still.

[mercurial-peevish]

*maut mar gaya*

&.

She said in a foreign language that is more familiar than the language I was taught that death has killed us. And I thought what an odd thing to say. But then I thought again. Has death not killed us all. Those that have gone and those that are left. Death has killed us all.

&.

Why is grief a recurring guest in your household. Why must you keep opening the door to welcome this twisted thing in. What has grief taught you that you yearn to learn more of. Why must we continue to welcome this lesson none of us really want to learn.

&.

They said the henna stains on her hands are barely off and she's already in mourning. If only. If only. It bounces off the walls. But we believe. So we know. If only doesn't work like that.

&.

We believe. But my God do we struggle to understand the why. But we believe. So we hold on and wait. And wait. For the night to fade and dawn to break. Oh we wait and hope this twisted thing won't visit us again.

[mercurial-peevish]

&. and. It’s always and. Always return to something solid. Three letters. A thousand stories. More. Always more.

[mercurial-peevish]

& love was all that was needed to fill the gaps between the fingers but sometimes hands get clammy and holding on to love becomes slippery

[mercurial-peevish]

and. disappointment more than anything. more than sadness and more than anger. when did loyalty become such a novelty

[mercurial-peevish]

& there is a stillness that is present only when the world sleeps and you sit, on your own, not lonely, but alone, there is a stillness

[mercurial-peevish]

Blood. There are bloodstains on skin that shows no wounds. Small dots of red and one larger spot scattered on sheets that were once white. You search skin for answers but stained fingertips are all you have.

Water. There is a gap of seconds that feels like minutes whilst you wait for the water to change from cold to warm. You let it fall all over the places that ache. The room is a sauna and still you feel no better.

Bones. They creak sometimes and when it’s cold they ache. You let your hands push and rub the skin to find some relief but apart from a little redness that will fade nothing has changed. Your nails are long and sometimes you feel as though you have scratched yourself but when you search your skin there is nothing.

[mercurial-peevish]

A thicket of black trees stood watch, their tops pressed into the starry underbelly of the night sky.

[mercurial-peevish]

& heavy is the heart that has grieved, that has memories of people who no longer have dancing shadows, that aches to see and speak to someone who is but dust in a room they once lived in.

Lived.

Heavy is the heart that has grieved.

[quiet-nymph]

Charlotte-Anne Fidler on Instagram

[mercurial-peevish]

and. what did you want me to say. does the day follow the night or does the night follow the day. i’m sorry for all the times i wasn't what you wanted me to be. what came first, the chicken or the egg. i wish i could draw, spill paint on a blank canvas and have you see inside my mind. spilt milk is a waste and can be upsetting, cry if you want. what if they die. obviously they're going to die, no one lives forever. what do you want to eat in jannah, she said donuts, you can have some, i share with you. i wish i could understand, i’ve tried to learn but my brain is not a sponge and if it is, well it needs wringing out. i was more than this, i was more than this. i can be more than this but for what purpose, for what intention. and. it’s always and. never ending, in the deepest depths of the night or the brightest hour of the day, it just goes on and on and on. it’s always on. never off. and. and. and. even when you die. even when death has chosen you to be its newest companion, it still does not end. and. well i’m going to end this now. but you just said it’s never ending. it’ll carry on in my head.

[secretlymagnificent]

This is a birthday card for a friend. I’ve never gotten tired of this ampersand seal. 

[mercurial-peevish]

& isn’t love a feather in a gust of wind. Stand on your tippy toes and try to catch it again and again. Sometimes it’s yours soft in your hand and sometimes you’re watching it escape through your fingers again and again, almost like sand. and isn’t love painted lips and soft whispers, never raised voices or angry words that linger. No, love is a feather, in a gust of wind. Stand on your tippy toes, here we go again.

[mercurial-peevish]

& as much as we would like to stop time isn’t it nice to know that time is the one thing we can rely on. Couple more months and the days will be longer and it will be light once more. Couple more months and it’ll be ramadhaan and we won’t think of the things we’re thinking now.

It won’t be dark forever. Light will be ours once more.