November is a wetty month
dropping it’s soul on the
last pages of my diary.
Tears corroding the page,
shrinking the size of my heart,
and changing its shape into
a small mailbox
functional only on weekdays
with no space for chocolates or ribbons
but for greetings from afar
then be empty for one-year eternity.
November is a wetty month.
It soon will end
All dried out
the rains, the tears
not sure which one is worse.
©kanikachugh
What is this?? This fucking eternal sadness like it has registered itself to my name. There are deliveries at my doorstep I didn’t even order. Stacks of unwanted boxes. One on top of the other. It doesn’t go away.
You know, there are times I don’t like weekends. A little bit of free time and my brain becomes a giant black hole with everything and nothing inside. Swallowing me. And the heart so numb, ignored like an abandoned, dried, dead algae on the walls of a water body. This feeling crushes my body into crumbles that people mistake it for a little, sudden excitement episodes I have.
I make routines, time-tables, workout plans, and believe me, I adhere to it. And then one day, like an anomaly in my utopia, it enters. Stays, for a long long time. Testing me within my routines. I stand still, walk, being busiest in my chores that it suddenly splits the soul into two. One that loves everyone ardently. Other that hates the existence of a tiny strand of living. One that wants to feel every kind of love. Other that feels nothing. At all.
There is a big, ample amount of space where I stand, all alone, lost in thoughts, concentrating on the faulty lines in my hands and I hear someone roar. There is this conveyer belt I see in front of me. With a thud, a big suitcase starts to appear, coming towards me with a relatively fast pace. But I’m lost in the demographics I don’t know well. For sure, won’t survive there for long either. Then I hear a voice,
“Hey, You! Yes you, spaced-out girl. I’m your baggage. Pick me up.”
And I do. Quietly. Politely. Like a nameless slave.
I tread along with this baggage everywhere. I don’t know where to put it down. Too afraid to give it to someone else too. It’s mine, afterall.
Carrying it in a desert, on a spring day, at a party, under the moonlight. Manipulating myself to accept it as a part of me and because of it I exist. Just exist. Like in a file, as a name, a record, a record that won’t even matter after fifty years. And I swear, each time I walk hundred steps with it, two hundred steps afar I go from my home. It’s exhausting.
©kanikachugh
I’m the person with details.
Your sunken eyes, red knuckles, unkempt nails, heaving chest, slouched shoulders, shrunken voice, uprooted heart, troubled fire, I’ll notice all.
If you find someone who is extremely happy, giving, kind, flexible per your needs, ready to sacrifice, wiling to go out of the way to help you;
Give some of love back to them.
They are failing to help themselves.
©kanikachugh
“Did you see that?”
“What?”
“How drastically the weather changed. It’s getting colder with each day passing by.”
“It wasn’t that sudden. Took it’s sweet time. Like always. Like last year. And the year before that.”
“But it feels different this time, isn’t it? This sudden chilliness. I don’t like it. Just like people, you know.”
“Umm, No. Maybe yeah.”
“Like they change drastically in one night.”
“Well, I don’t think so anyone changes overnight. There is always a drenched ruthlessness and crispiness in their voices, like leaves. You’d see dew drops of undisclosed emotions, dampness of their second guesses. A chilly reminder of their unintended forecast for future.
Just like weather, people drop enough hints, sometimes even them being unaware so.
A clear sky into the clouds of unapologetic behavior. We just don’t want to notice it. We think it’s a phase but it’s time for an entire season to change. Before we are ready we are thrown into a blizzard of no-answers. Henceforth, the shivering reaches our bones. And in the end we accept it. Voluntarily or involuntary.
“Hmm… But I still feel winters are hostile intruders. I’m never enough prepared for it or for any coldness whatsoever.”
“That is why we come to watch the sunset more often. To make the most of what we have :-).
So do you like it?”
“What?”
“This! The new sunset point I discovered for you.”
“Geez, all sunset points are beautiful. This one too.”
“C’mon! I know you wanna thank me a hundred times for this one.
What would you do without me?”
“Haha!! I can do better without you.”
Try and you’d know.
“Wait! I have gum. We can eat… Oh!! Where is it? I think I forgot on the park bench :(“
“You keep an extra one in the inner pocket of your bag.”
“Wow! Thanks, ya.”
“Yeah! You don’t need me”
“What are you mumbling?”
“Nothing, let’s move now. It has started to get chilly.”
“Yeah! I’m hungry too. Let’s grab something to eat.”
“Seriously! We ate before coming here. You know, the devil inside you keeps hovering over me for food.”
“Shut up and walk. I don’t….Ow!”
“Careful! That’s another devil that makes you keep stumbling at little stones or inconveniences. I won’t be here always to protect you from falling.”
“Ha ha! Why don’t you shut your devil-mouth for sometime.”
“Naah! Never. As long as you are around”
“Want do you think we should eat. I found another small eatery at the corner of……………”
Excerpts from my journal’s characters
©kanikachugh
I’m a walking white flag covered in blood. So, if you don’t mind some chronic wounds and bruises, I am pretty much what you always asked for.
You know when I sit beside you I, purposely look at your hands, leisurely rolling on the table. Half of your expressions are conveyed before the eyes or lips move. Like those hands hold the unasked love of the entire world or the description of your last vacation you try to tell in boomerang finger movements. Long, slender, enchanting fingers that melts me in the wall.
It mesmerises me madly how every body-part dances in some subtle excitement but then there are hands to show how far one can go from north pole to another through the extended arms giving everyone a giant hug. You make me believe I stand on the balcony of a fancy hotel overlooking Eiffel or getting ready to snowboard in alps and you there to catch me in your competent, certain hands if ever I fall.
They way your warmth-caked palms bang the table at a joke, the way those fingers brush against the glass you are holding, the way the tips caress water droplets, sliding your thumb up and down like its you who’s quenching its thirst not the other way round. It’s a revolution against boredom.
I’d love to get lost in those hands for hours, days or at 3am in the morning. Those arms, wordless and pouring of love. And the hug, warm countryside cottage on a chilly winter night. I’d love to give myself in in your fireplace.
©kanikachugh
