Sometimes I can smell eternity in this light, so deep that it makes home in the core of my stomach turning me into a silent bubble floating around the world. Bleeding away the wounds and healing like I own the secrets of the universe. Above the ground, somewhere in the middle of the air taking no space, numbed with a sense of euphoria.
And other times I cannot even look at the light. Neither within nor in the whisks of the fruity air around me. It fails to remind me of flowers and mandalas and poems that otherwise fill me up with life songs. I feel I dissolve in the backdrop of my life. I become one of these lonely things around like a balloon or a dried old tree or a noisy wall hanging. Some days the sunbeam fails me.
When did any of our body part become a commodity to be compared to or felt conscious about? All those scoundrel eyes that judge, rape, harass or humiliate, I’ve seen women coiling all of it around their bodies and as if years after years they have detached completely from it. As if their soul and their flesh are two different people. As if it’s their mistake.
Why? Why do we forget to make love to our own hands and feet. Why can’t we sit in front of the mirrors making faces and loving every inch of our skin with devotion so overwhelming. Why can’t we decorate our bodies with our touch and fragrance like our home. Imagine what heaven would it be to feel this body as the only cover that uplifts its bird, the soul inside. Why can’t we touch ourselves up to toe and feel like we’re butterflies out of our cocoons. Why can’t we dance with our flesh in the air drooling and swaying like lunatics and never feel the need to hold someone else’s hand or waist to feel complete. Why can’t we make love to ourselves drunk over our own bodies so much that it’s unnecessary to think of other’s flesh.
There has always been a part of me detached from this world. The more I hear people talk more I want to stay shut. Silence. They don’t talk to share. To make my heart feel what their heart would have felt in that instance. They talk to tell. Sometimes they’d even do some things just to be able to narrate it to people later. It makes me upset and honestly, sometimes it drives me crazy. How could they do it? Corrupt everything about a moment in their lives so much that they weren’t even living in there while they made it happen. As if even their illusions are corrupt because they never live the illusions in the first place. The labels they use, the grandeur of their falsehood feeding their hearts makes me shut. And when once in a while I see a man or a woman talk like they’ve ripped their heart open without prejudices, opinions or judgments, I fail to believe the rarity of it. I want to listen more but that’s the tragedy you know, the raw ones, they know when to stop. That’s the thing about people and their talks. The ugliness of definitions, labels and lies and the beauty of unaltered honesty, both would affect you deeply in life.
Why can’t I feel my heart and everything it causes in my body? I fear, I fear the shortness of this life to live these odd hours so numb and rest of my life just dreaming. Those chills through my spine kind of moments, I don’t like the rarity of them. I don’t like the fact that to feel my heart throb inside me I need some settings around me. Only with a man or under a sky full of stars or only with a pen in hand, a poem on lips can I feel that I’m alive. And then I can’t put into words that how does it happen. I swallow myself into myself. Half my breath I curse myself and open my mouth to cry and the other half of the same moment is so lonely , it shuts me and I can’t even cry. Why, I ask why life doesn’t happen as much as we desire? Why is it running so fast and drowning so slow?
What’s more infinite than these long hours of staring into a wall musing on that rain we had drenched each other in, smell of cheese and lilies and fog and clothes and coffee and air and water and you all mixed up, your voice at 4 am in the morning and the warmth that melts me on cold winter nights. Drugged on these no me without you nights. Oh such horror, what animal I was before I met you. And now, I start drawing images of you, I had hallucinated in your absence on this wall that has begin to look like you finally and I have declared myself an artist in celebration. I have roamed enough on the wall tracing your edges with no end to the drunkenness this world around me is so deprived of. Tonight again my dearest, I sleep in your light against this world beneath the moon.
"….all artists, regardless of degree of talent, are a painful, paradoxical combination of certainty and humility, constantly in need of reassurance, and yet with a stubborn streak of faith in their own validity no matter what."