Constance 2

"Constance, my love, I cannot weave sentences out of words that mean so little. It's arduous trying to make everything out of nothing. Like the way your touch illuminates my insides, the way seeing you from across the street warms me up better than my favourite sweater. How do I make you understand that these words are not enough to portray what you make me feel?

Happy? Loved? Complete? Strong? Invincible? Hopeful? Yes, you make me feel all those and so much more. But when you take them all together, my god, there is no word for that. That is how you make me feel.

 

Ever since I saw your glow, my heart has forgotten its beat. Slow and irregular it was. Here, put your hand against my chest. Do you feel that? That's the sound of my heart keeping up, beating insync with your rhythm.

 

You have opened me up, yet you have numbed the parts of me I wish were gone. I am speechless."

EPILOGUE

Note: This short story was first uploaded on my other blog "The Bookstore Bandit". I have now decided to take down The Bookstore Bandit, and hence, i am reposting this story in this blog. Here on, all my writings including my short stories will be available only on this blog, 'The Philosophical Itinerant'. My poems will be available both on the blog and my Instagram account.

 PROLOGUE

I remember it hurt. When he looked at me, it hurt. His red gaze locked on my blue ones from across the room, amidst broken things. Everything was broken – the tables, the chairs, the shelves, the glass, us. Framed memories were scattered all over the floor. A few strong ones were cracked, like our wedding day and the day she was born. But the rest, the weak ones were broken beyond repair. Our fingers bled and bled from trying to pick up the shattered pieces of those memories, the glasses were too sharp, and we eventually gave up. We gave up, what a shame.

He kept saying I needed help, but help wasn’t what I needed. I needed him.

THE FIRST SIGNS

Remember the good days? When the only fights we had were on whose turn it was to do the dishes, when these metals around our fingers were something that bound us together. Since when did they become so heavy, love? Since when did they feel like shackles? You told me that night, under the blanket of stars that enveloped us, that I was your favorite home you’ve ever been to. What happened to that? Tell me, what happened to that? I remember it all too well. Even after 6 years of marriage, those words ring sharp like a bell in my head. They are the moments that keep me from falling apart. I hold on to them in times like this, in broken times. But they have faded from your heart, I know they have. I can see it in your eyes. You don’t look at me the same way you used to. Your eyes once told me everything I will never hear again.

You left me when I needed you most. You left me when I thought it was you and me against the world. The world turned its back on me, and just when I naively believed I had no one except you, you turned your back and walked away. It hurts to look at you. Do you know that? It hurts when my eyes get hold of your hands that once traced the curves of my body as though they were maps that led to freedom. It hurts when I see your lips, lips that once let out all the right words. Because now, all I see are hands that touch her the way you used to touch me, arms that hold her the way I used to be held, lips that tell her all the words I need to hear now.

I guess the curves of my body were really maps that finally led you to your own kind of freedom.

SECOND CHANCES

I walked in on you making love to her on the bed you made love to me. I heard as you helped her let out sweet little moans for you. It took all the strength I had to close my eyes and turn away. Why did you come running after me and beg for forgiveness if all you were going to do is hurt me again and again? My love must have blinded me then. Why would I have had forgiven you so easily? I’ve never had reason to believe that your love would fail me. Even during my stormiest and darkest nights, you were always there. My hands would clumsily search for yours in the dark, and you would find me, even when I couldn’t. You were always there. And I thought you would always be. Now I am lost, and you have taken way too long to find me.

Was it guilt? Or was it sympathy? All I know is that it definitely wasn’t love that made you run after me and apologize. Tell me one thing. Why now? Out of all the times you could have chosen to leave me stranded, why now? When I’m almost getting over our loss, when the scars she left are almost healed, when I need you most to give me one final pull. Was I too much to handle? Were the scenes of hundreds of bottles of pills, midnight breakdowns and trips to the hospital every weekend too much to handle? But I remember the words you told me 6 years back when I wore a white dress and you wore my heart. You said you would stand by me for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. Did you not mean it?

Now I know that love can die a natural death when your promises no longer bind you.

THIRD TIME’S A CHARM

I walked in on you making love to her on the bed you made love to me. Again. But this time, I opened my eyes. This time, I looked, then I turned around and left. And you didn’t come running after me. I didn’t expect you to either. Neurons can’t keep responding to the same stimulus, you know. They get accustomed to it after a while. I have also learnt not to react, I have learnt to become numb to the world. But that doesn’t mean all the pain has left me. And on some days, it just hits me a little too hard, and I fall. I fall and you are not there to pick me up. Nobody is ever there to pick me up.

I remember she left when she saw me. Atleast this one had the decency unlike the two others before her. Then you came out of the room and saw me holding her picture framed in delicate glass. Our baby girl, she was gone. She was never coming back. Three short years were all we had with her. We knew that our days with her were numbered. But what we didn’t know was that our days with each other would also be numbered after she was gone. It was a pathetic situation, really. The things love can do to you. It can build you and break you the very next minute. Then it all happened so quickly. I lost it. I threw her picture on the floor and I watched as it smashed to pieces. Still, she smiled at me through the shattered glass and it hurt. Everything I could find flew to the floor after that. One by one, they shattered to small pieces, too small to pick up. We tried anyway and they made us bleed, so I stopped trying. I told you. I told you to leave them alone, and you didn’t listen to me. You never listen to me.

So here we are, broken and defeated, surrounded by the downfall of all the things we once loved, including each other.

EPILOGUE

Life can be so heartless sometimes. It just keeps slowly shredding you of every little piece of everything good until you are left with none. It gives and takes, but mostly, it takes. You’ll have to part with everything and everyone you ever love, one way or another. Life consumes you, it really does. It even prevents you from living sometimes. Life prevents you from living; because life is a war. It just presents you with a new and harder battle everyday when you haven’t even won the battle of yesterday. And I am losing everyday’s battle.

So here I am, broken and defeated, losing the war of life.

Crime and Punishment

Note: This short story is an adaptation of a script of the same name by the self titled genius, Ayman Hamzaki, a good friend. You should go visit his amazing blog https://cinephilecritique.wordpress.com/ to read reviews on the best movies.

Thank you, Ayman.

CHAPTER 1

He saw, through the black of the night, two shadowy figures facing each other. They seemed to be absorbed in a serious conversation. He hid behind a bush and listened hard, trying to decipher what was going on. What was so important that these two had to meet in the middle of the night? This went on for a minute or so before out of nowhere, one held out something shiny that glistened in the dark – a knife, and stabbed the other right in the heart. The body fell to the ground and the murderer quickly looked around in lingering desperation and fear, and ran away, disappearing in the night.

He then finally came out from his hiding place and ran towards the body. It laid there on the cold, hard ground. Motionless. Still. Lifeless. A runnel of blood runs from it. The metallic smell still fresh, filling the air. He bent down, turned it around and a shiver ran down his spine. What had he done?

CHAPTER 2

Johnny remembered it all too well, he wished he didn’t. That fateful day when desperation drove him mad, when desperation drove him over the edge. He had gone to an address a friend gave him and as he stood there outside, knocking on the door, he felt his stomach flip. He was willing to give up his watch. What was he supposed to do? He was in dire need of money and money didn’t come easy. The door opened and a burly looking man appeared. He looked around forty, double his age. He stepped in and showed him the watch. After much enquiry, the burly man said the watch was worth two thousand rupees. Two thousand rupees? Johnny had paid double the price when he bought it just a few months back. He argued that he be paid more, but the man wasn’t willing to give in and took out two thousand rupee notes from his wallet. “Take it or leave it”, he had said. But he asked for five hundred rupees more, his watch was worth more than his current offer. Then the man was angered by this young man’s stubbornness and pushed him out of the house. Just as he was about to shut the door close, a foot appeared and jammed it. Johnny wasn’t ready to give up just yet. He then pushed the door open and asked, this time with anger and a new found boldness, to increase the price. The man hesitated still, and suddenly, he felt strong hands gripping his neck. He couldn’t breathe, he was choking. The hands wouldn’t let go, their grip only became harder. He staggered a bit, and he could feel his eyelids slowly shutting, consciousness slipping away. Then, nothing.

It was already too late when the young man realized what he had done. It’s always too late. Fear came over him when he saw the dead man lying still on the floor. He had killed him. He had taken a life. He saw the wallet lying near the body and out of despair, snatched it and ran out of the house, never looking back.

CHAPTER 3

Yohann was strolling in the park, camera in hand. Today, he decided that he would take pictures of this burly looking guy. After taking a few snaps, he followed him to his house so that he could deliver the pictures once they’re printed. Then, he went to the printing shop nearby, and wrote down his number on an envelope for the photos to be kept in once they were printed. He left the shop and headed home.

He opened the door to the bedroom and saw that his partner was already home. “Johnny,” he said, “You’ll never guess what happened today.” Johnny was facing the other side, his eyes fixed on the wall. He didn’t turn back. Yohann continued. “The pictures I took today were amazing, they”. Then Johnny cut him off. “Amazing? Then why don’t you get paid for them? I’m trying so hard to make money and all you do is click pictures of random people. Do you not understand how worried I am?” Silence. Yohann remained quiet. Then after a while, he whispered softly, “I love you”. Three words he hoped would fix everything.

CHAPTER 4

Zoya had had a long day. She entered her house and saw her father sitting on the couch, reading the paper. She asked if she could have some money, but somewhere in some dark corner of her mind, she already knew the answer to that. Then, wham! A slap right across her pretty face. She was prepared for it.  “Go earn some yourself,” he had said. Then, he dragged her to her room and just as he was about to lock her from outside, the doorbell rang. He shut the door, and went to open the main door.  “Stay here,” he had said.  Zoya’s face remained like a stone. No tears, no frowns, no nothing. Ten years of abuse could do that to you.

The father opened the door and a nervous looking young man appeared. He said he wanted to sell him his watch.

CHAPTER 5

Yohann walked out of the printing shop, satisfied with his pictures. As he was walking towards the house of the man in the pictures, he thought about Johnny. He thought about how, even after five years, he still loved him all the same. He thought about how he would do anything for him, for their relationship. He then reached the house, envelope in hand, ready to hand over the pictures, when he saw Johnny running out of the house, colour draining from his face.  Johnny? What was he doing here? He decided that he would enter the house and enquire. Johnny didn’t see him anyway.

He walked up to the door and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He pushed open the door, it wasn’t locked. And there, he saw the man lying dead on the ground. Just then, a girl, perhaps his daughter, came out from another room and seeing her father’s dead body with Yohann standing beside it, one can guess what conclusion she came to. Horror, shock and anger became her face.  “I didn’t do it. I can explain,” Yohann stammered. Then the girl came and attacked him. She was fierce. Not knowing what to do, he took the kitchen knife on the table nearby and stabbed her on her left thigh. The girl screamed, and he ran out, fear pushing his legs faster than ever.

CHAPTER 6

Yohann lied awake in bed that night. As he looked at Johnny sleeping next to him, his chest rising and falling, he wondered how he could have done such a thing and still sleep so peacefully. He wondered if Johnny was the same person he was five years back, or perhaps, he didn’t know him at all. He had not told him about what happened earlier, neither did Johnny. Just then, he heard his phone ring. An unknown number. He picked it up.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“You killed my father,” a voice replied.

“No. No. I didn’t. I just saw who did it. How did you get my number?”

“You left the envelope with the pictures. If you want to explain yourself, come meet me at this address.”

He took down the address on a piece of paper, got dressed and left the room. The door banged loudly, waking Johnny up. “Yohann?”

Yohann reached the address and saw the girl, Zoya standing in the dark. He walked up to her and started to explain himself when out of nowhere, she took out a knife and stabbed him right in the heart.  “I saw you. I know it was you. He was my father. He may not have treated me like a daughter, but he was my father.” Yohann fell to the gound, a runnel of blood running from his body. Then the girl looked around, turned and ran.

Johnny came out from behind the bush he was hiding. He had followed Yohann, wanting to know why he left in the middle of the night. He was trying to listen to their conversation when suddenly, Yohann fell and the other ran. It all happened so fast, he couldn’t register what was happening at first.

As he sat there, beside the lifeless body of Yohann, he could do nothing but cry. He wished he could fix it, but it was too late. It was always too late.  What had he done?

Constance

"Wait for me, Constance", I shouted in between breaths, barely catching up, "Wait for me!" The sky was a beautiful blue, almost as beautiful as your eyes. Wind in my hair and hope in my heart, I pushed my legs as hard as I could up that green hill, not wanting to part.

 

"Isn't this beautiful?" you said, standing on the top of the hill, looking out to the sea below it that  never seemed to end. The waves crashed against the hard rocks time and again, but they never could break through. It was hard to even seep through, so they were pushed back to the sea every time. See, I notice little things like that, the way i notice how you tap your fingers when things don't interest you enough, how you bend your back with utmost certainty that your eggs will not be the perfect omelet if you don't bend and concentrate when you flip them, how you always like to take the stairs, even to the ninth floor, than take a crowded elevator, how your soul shines through your eyes with a glint every time you are happy, like right now.

 

And as I stood on the edge of that hill, 600 meters above the deep blue sea, I held your hand and I wondered. I wondered what it would be like to fall into the vast blue wonder below, what it would be like to drown and be taken by the waves.  But then I looked into your eyes and I realised that I already knew what it was like to drown in a vast blue wonder.

 

Wave by wave, you conquer me. Time and again, I surrender.

Being Brutally Honest With Yourself and Paper

I have never been one to openly share the most intimate and personal parts of my life with anyone. Maybe i am afraid of judgements, or is it because i feel like an extra burden to anyone i tell them to? I still can't seem to figure it out.So what do i do? I write them down. Yep, i pen it all down on paper. Because paper doesn't judge you, paper doesn't discriminate, paper listens to all your complaints and worries and happiness and joys.Paper simply takes it all in as you tell it.I once read a quote somewhere, i'm pretty sure it's on tumblr. It read : Always be honest with yourself, brutally honest. And that hit me hard.

 

The quote made me think a lot, and i realized how untruthful and disloyal i have always been to myself and to my writing. Don't get me wrong, this doesn't mean all the poems you've read (hopefully) are all lies and i make up each and every one of them. True that poetry is generally considered a lie, because it deviates you from the truth and takes you to a make-believe, fantasy world. But all my writings are all very close to my heart. They are all based on something i have experienced, or struggled with or..oh well, imagined. I guess poetry sort of digresses you from reality after all. But that is the best part of it, is it not? That a mere amalgamation of words can take you on an escape trip from reality and the world? A combination of letters transport you into a place you've never been to? 

 

Now what i meant when i said i have been untruthful and disloyal to my writing is that i don't just rawly present you with whatever my mind and heart brews up. I don't offer you my products as it is. I just don't jot down why i was feeling blue on that particular day, or how a fight i had with someone made me feel sad, or that i was happy because i made a new friend.What i often do is that i create a totally new situation, i imagine one, to which the same words i would use if i were to tell you my tales unmanipulated and unfurnished, are applicable. That, or i simply use a lot of metaphors and personifications and synecdoches. 

 

After a while, i then concluded that i do this because even in writing, i can never face the harsh reality, i can never truly accept things the way they are. I know this is a rather pathetic and negative thing to say, but it is something i have constantly fought with all my life: acceptance. And i was wrong before, paper doesn't take it all in as it is. Paper takes in whatever you want it to take in.Writing is an imprint of all the lies you tell yourself. So, telling paper as it is would mean telling yourself the truth, and accepting it. And as human, i have a hard time doing that.

This is why i can never be brutally honest with myself, because i cannot be brutally honest with paper. Having said that, this is, by far, the most brutally honest i have ever been with paper.

Explore Your Hopes

If there is anything I have learned from life at all, it’s that life is unpredictable. The tables can turn in the blink of an eye. Violet clouds and indigo seas offer you peace and serenity and everything good, and all of a sudden, dark waves cloaked in thunderstorms come at you and plunge you deep, deep down beneath the surface.

I would like to believe that life offers you hope through everything. That even as the sea mercilessly pulls you to the bottom, you can still see the silver linings of those violet clouds. And I pray they give you hope. I pray they give you the strength to move your arms and legs and push yourself up to the surface. But most of all, I pray they give you the courage to hope and be victorious. Because that is often the hardest part – the part where you will yourself to believe in all that you are and can be. It takes a lot of courage to believe in yourself, but I promise you, it is always worth everything. I swear on all things good that will come to you, believing in yourself is worth everything.

Some have tried and failed, and some have tried and won. Some have been trying for long, and they will win. Someday, they will win. Some have given up a little too soon, because they don’t see anything worth hoping for, and that is heartbreaking. There is always something worth your hope; you just have to find it. Even during the darkest hours of the night, there are always countless stars shining for you, somewhere out there. Be courageous.  Explore your hopes.

How to Love

I have learnt the importance of maintaining your identity, who you are, even though you may be hopelessly in love with another person. You should merge, you should fuse and connect, because that is what love is all about - connection. But as I stand here knee deep in love, watching people drown in the same, I have learnt how crucial it is to hold on to the essence of who you truly are. The person you were before you became an ember. You were an inferno. Hold on to your own flame.
Giving too much, loving too much, caring too much. These aren't bad things as long as you give yourself the same, love and care for yourself the same. If you give all the love inside of you away, you fall apart when there is nothing left for yourself, and this in turn, unhinges the bonds you share with the other person. Slowly, but surely, a relationship falls apart this way.
So listen to me when I tell you this, if you truly love someone, you must not forget to love yourself as well.

The Eye of the Storm

There is a small me

There is a small me

Twisting and turning in

My inside.

She is tugging and banging

On my ribcage,

Voicelessly demanding her release.

She realises she cannot be heard

And goes and lies down

On the red mat of my heart.

She twitches and turns

And grasps on the mat,

Pulling up little mountains

That are never high enough.

There is a small me

Twisting and turning

In my inside.

She will die.

She will die and she will rot

And fill me up with putrid stench

Unless and until

Small me flees and 

bursts out of my ribcage.

We're all broken inside

In the end, we're all just broken inside. Everything you do, be it writing poetry or cutting your wrists, or sleeping around, or making music or listening to it, or posting pictures of every apparent happy moment of your lives, choosing the best pictures, scared the world won't know how well that date with your partner went, or how much you enjoyed the night with your friends. It's all just to hide all those broken pieces of you which are scattered so far apart you doubt you'll ever become whole again. 

Sure you smile and laugh and look at life through the eyes of a child sometimes but it's when that pang of loneliness and brokenness hits you all of a sudden in the midst of your laughter and joy, when you're surrounded by friends and everyone you love, that's when you know you're broken inside.

We're all just a bunch of doomed helpless beings battling our own insecurities and demons, trying to mend our brokenness. No one has the right to judge others. You who write poetry to let out your bottled up feelings, you have no right to judge the one who cuts his/her wrists to let out the same. You who pray to God with the hope of belonging and feeling loved, you have no right to judge the one who sleeps around to feel the same. You who posts pictures on social media to show the world your facade and hide your insecurities, you have no right to judge the one who is aloof and is silent in the corner to hide the same.

All these are our different self defence mechanisms. We are all fighting our battles in our own warfare techniques. Don't judge. Empathise. Understand.

I offered you my heart on a silver plate

I offered you my heart on a silver plate.

Beating, beating, beating

For you.

You called it a meal but I called it fate

Until you ate my heart out and rubbed your belly,

It was art, the way you devoured my heart.

The devil will get his due.

Now my head is booming with mad brilliance

And your name fills the pages of books on every other hand,

But my heart remains empty and lacklustre.

It's as if dead, but I know better.

So I place my hand on my chest, and find my heart still "Beating, beating, beating

For you."