The story about one (thousand) red door(s).

I have closed one door permanently or at least I think it’s permanent.
Too terrified to knock, let alone have courage to open it.
A crimson, bloody door with strong hinges and hissing sound slipping beneath the space as life quickens itself by me or simply comes to a halt at times.
A ghost, it appears, had been living there. Old as a memory. I wish I could forget its existence but it’s my ghost; tailored to ignite my fears.
Don’t you just wanna smash it down and flee far away?

Memories, doubts, guilt, drowning sirens, insecurities, screams that never found a voice. All residing in one place. Probably, it’s not a single ghost. A cluster of dormant/dominant inhibitions posing as clowns and scaring the shit out of me. I need to learn how to swim out but I fail. So, I just stay there. Pretending that I’m swimming to the safest shore when in actuality I’m drowning. But then I’ve always been good at drowning. My soul being rarely lost, also being so thin to be felt in me.

I had been inhaling the fresh, sun-lit breezes. It’s lighter, breathable. Doesn’t accumulate its heaviness on my cheek. But the moment I’ll crack open that door its toxic smugness will going to invade my lungs, nauseate my yearly-added/practiced affirmations out, suffocate my manifestations, stifle the dreams, all because that ghost could thrive.

I cannot let that happen. I also cannot hold the door longer. It strains my neck, numbs my brain, prevents me from writing, prevents me from living.
Perhaps someone could help me. Perhaps not. You see about help- one has to be okay in asking it. You see, about help- rejection hurts more than punch in your guts. We, the topmost animal of the food-chain, the innocence-eaters, the egotistical beings only thrive when we stay afloat on the surface.
The drowning part is, however, subjective. Sometimes we prefer to die instead of holding their hands.
I feel mankind was doomed to begin with. They say the only time your age progresses is when you are a foetus and afterwards it only reduces. That implies we have had our graves readied since our births. And all this life we keep collecting different red doors, some miracles, some laughters, some mournings, some sunshine before nothingness decides to sit with us at the table and devours us.

©kanikachugh

Don’t use feelings!

“I figured out what you meant by saying —I don’t use feelings until that’s the only thing left to use.
Would you call me a spendthrift if that’s all I spent to be with people. Sometimes, even money. So they stay with me, as an obligation. I think no one would hit an emotional lowest than when admitting the bribe we give people so they could find reasons to stay. How cruelly manipulative of us to make them do this. How manipulative I could be? But not using feelings and emotions is an abuse too. Someone who wanted to be around you without any given reason waits and waits for your emotional opening but never gets it. What is worse -making someone stay with a promised candy every now & then Or being oblivious of the feelings of a person who wants to stay with you without rationality or logic?”

©️kanikachugh

Suffering

I refuse to believe that everyone
is not suffering. Suffering is (almost)
the only thing that makes you wanna
live more, strive for a better life,
to find an escape. A wonderland
only to return to realities at night.
I don’t believe people are as carefree
and untroubled as much they show
in their personal or social lives.

They’re merely passing the baton of suffering
from today to their tomorrow’s self.

Safe??

I feel okay many a time but safe, rarely.

There are extremely few occasions where my body, mind, thoughts, or heart feel safe. That place is as holy as a shrine for me. My ever-so wandering mind takes away the pleasures so damn easily from me and insults are the first thing it recognizes as something own. Sanity falls through the air and suddenly the person, place, or the vibe ain’t the safe space anymore for me. It’s like feeling safe is so limited.

My Home

My home misses a fireplace that
kept everyone together and warm
and made the dust of tiffs slither
out from the chimney corner.

The roof was successful in keeping
the rains out but failed to stop the
water coming out from the eyes.
So, now the roof drips of murkier dampness.

The walls stood high and tall just
like everyone else in the house
who stood so stubborn that they
forgot bending for each other.
Walls of our attic are better at consoling now.

The ground sunk below holding
the weight of the hearts that just
kept getting heavier the nights
they didn’t talk.
Pit tension in the stomach holds more
importance than the lent shoulders.

The doors stayed shut for longer
hours because everyone in the home
wanted solitude but cursed life for
their loneliness .
A swinging, wooden obstruction
denied even a hundred-knocks bribe.

My home misses a pantry where we hoarded pounds of shoplifted love we shared the last time we went for grocery shopping together.

My home misses everything that a normal home has. A family that is supposed to be together happily and not as a burden.

My home, a synonym of homesickness.

Not so special :-)

Listen
to yourself often.
Not being born special worked out.
It made you humble and grateful each time,
when you were given a chance
you proved yourself time & again
When people were busy bragging
you trudged silently
but you made it
everytime.