It’s a November night. Someone confesses their love to you. You sit back and consider all the possibilities with this person. You text your friends, telling them how sweet that person is, bragging about their kindness and the energy wealth they bring into your life.
You keep the phone down and wait by it for that person to call. You think it feels good because it is good. You think about the next haircut you’re gonna get. All the restaurants you can visit together. And then in a split of a second, in a spur of a moment your mind races back towards the similar feelings you felt before.
That happy rush, that iconic courage to risk the world for this love. And that scares the daylights out of you. You admit everything you had been feeling, the text to friends, the future plans, an urge to pushback negative and see the light—all was a way to keep your brain busy.
Because you are still scared. Terrified—of being pushed down to the ceaseless storm of heartbreak and pain. You thought you got over it but that fear never vanished, it always had been there—hiding, crawling on the floor to grab you the moment it could.
You want to feel the love again, you wish to embrace the openness of those little talks under the tree, of those shared cups of coffee, of those uncomplicated, unwrinkled emotions, of no stretch-marks timidness but you forgot.
You forgot when did the wall around the chambers of your heart skyrocketed and became impenetrable that nothing reaches you anymore. It’s sad. Really sad. When happiness is knocking at your door and you can’t scream out I DON’T KNOW HOW TO BREAK DOWN A WALL.
The first time we met we were hesitant to say Hi We walked a bit together on pavements coloured yellow. You were wearing orange and I, gratitude. The season was fall, the air was damp. Far away someone played the piano And we walked and walked Liked we waltz-ed. A world like this, a day like this was in prayers and now in bubbles. How I said my favourites were strawberries How you said your favourite was Franz Kafka We both laughed. Our eyelids happily closed
The fall is back again and I read Metamorphosis The helplessness, the hopelessness the plot slipping from sad to miserable. I sing a song with no tomorrow in it. And It dawns on me the meaning of the word when you left. You left me in a Kafkaesque world.
The diary doesn’t hold secrets It holds my rebel. It holds my definition for you as my favourite fruit, as a platonic cat, as any enamoured materialistic thing with non-existent adjectives making grammatical errors along the way misusing punctuation but never you. You my age of twenty-one, You my little dreams, You my 10 rules of winning in life, You my sky and analysis of it.
I ain’t afraid if anyone gets hold of my diary. Cause it won’t make sense at all. It doesn’t have to Like my love for you. No one can understand but me.
World is a non-genre movie. Fall in love the one moment dip your hands in death in other. Mourn a loss, live in shadow then get interrupted by a friend snowballing hope through shoulder. Merry & high sneaks in-between the world-ending. Dark and anger at the corner of the street, hiding Fights and heartbreaks are blockbusters choice Cigarettes and ashes usually the way to die. The world isn’t a fight between good and evil. it’s the misinformation of how we spend our time amidst chaos and dry living. Sky, prism, waltz, balloons Unread letters, burned bridges, 3’o clocks. They just spin And spin us all around till we fall till we are grieved with a genre leaked of a house we lived in once of the swing no one remembers.
‘There are too many flowers, not enough vases. Get some more! The fairy lights are supposed to form a crescent like a Moon. Fix it. Lanterns add a mystic brightness to the windows. Hang those at a perfect angle. Hand out the pamphlets! A special someone is coming. Prepare everything.’
That’s how I ready my heart when they are about to enter for someone to feel at home. That’s another story It soon becomes a haunted house of web, and, old wood and no light When I hear them say ‘Ah! You again.’