اِضْطِرارِ طَبِیعَت // iztiraar-e-tabii'at

a despair of temperament

[twilightnotesfromafriend]

note #1

I don't know if the numbering of the notes will last, or if I'll manage to write so many I will lose count, but I miss writing. I didn't realise I liked the anonymity of writing online, until after I'd already invited so many of those who see me daily to see what I write too--I like writing and I like what I write sometimes so why wouldn't I want others to see it too, right?

But.

I've realised I stopped writing--across the various platforms i used--because now, others colour it too much. They take it and twist it and present it back to me calling it a reflection of myself when it's not, it's only a rendition of them--even if I wrote the original words, what you recite back to me is not what I am and it's not what I meant either. I realised I worry about coming off dramatic, or cringe, or cheesy so I'm constantly rewording and reworking and that's exhausting obviously so it's no wonder I stopped altogether.

I liked writing because it was everything around me the way I see it--or the way I want it to be. But now it feels like secrets I wrote in a diary I buried deep that someone plastered all over the walls for others to scrutinise. Even though I'm the one who did it. I mixed the glue and slathered it across the pages. I pasted each one up on the wall, made sure it was centred and balanced--somehow convinced myself I've wanted to curate this gallery since forever. But it's not artwork sold to be displayed. It's not artwork at all. It's me. And it's more of me than I would like made public to everyone.

That's why this page exists, I think.

[twilightnotesfromafriend]

starting a small sketchbook ft some messages humans sent to space apparently

[twilightnotesfromafriend]

I have built a house. It is where I wake and where I lie. It is not where I want to die.

I don't want to cling to grief but it coats every wall I know. Wretched, inescapable thing. It's in the scab I pick and the blood that sits underneath, bright red, hinting of a pain I will pretend to not feel. I stay up nights to cry. It's a strange thing, how easy it is to "forget" and be happy in the day. To feel less and think of it as feeling better. 'Forget and call it healing'

At nights, however.

Maybe it's because I have nothing else but time to myself. Nothing to do but face the loss. Momentarily. Crumple under the weight of it. Time heals nothing.

Still.

So frantic, still:

The grasping at things beautiful and unburnt, unsullied by hurt and distress. Things that speak of only love and sweetness, everything good--but more importantly, wiped clean of everything else human. I know it is most human to be mortal. To love and then let it go. There's only so much of life to go around, eventually, something has got to give. Someone has to leave.

Still.

I stay up nights to look at people--the things they say and the things they write and the things they paint. Proof of life beyond loss. Technicolour evidence that things go on. I am miserable, but the sun will rise and the birds will sing and somebody somewhere will spill paint across their shirt because their cat ran over their painting. Tomorrow, I will wake and make breakfast as somebody loses a daughter, a friend, a father. Time heals nothing. But it goes on, still.

So I cry when it's quiet and forget to do so when it's not--and almost fool myself into thinking I have healed. But still. The quiet arrives, still. Blood sits underneath the scab, pulsing red amidst tender skin still so raw, a muted pink.

Time heals nothing and yet it goes on. only to collect new loss. New heartbreak I will forget about during the day and then stay up nights to recover from.

Wounds will close, yes but still. Time heals nothing.

[twilightnotesfromafriend]

Katherine May - Wintering

[twilightnotesfromafriend]

/ there are mountains at the edge of the universe /

lonely whalesong that floats at 52, debt in the pursuit of ultramarine blue, rebels on wooden stakes impaled alive, eyes that'll be blinded later but watched them die

to treat the wound is to reopen it

stars only twinkle when we look at them, prometheus gave us fire and had himself condemned, the moon has only a tenth of its shine when half full, I lost a love early last year, the end of it found me infinitely more tearful.

love and loss and love and loss and love and loss And love.

sincerely, Simran