a long walk back...

we all deserve a second chance don't we?
or then a third and a fourth and then endless possibilities of forgiving and forgetting in a puzzle of our lives.
every step i took up that hill i knew i was moving away from you. gradually. slowly. and with as much purpose as i could possibly breathe in. don't try to fix me i'm not broken.
i am your lie living for you so you can hide.
live and keep talking.
and then the peak. and the sheer exhaustion. the realisation that we must climb down again. into the nothingness of life and scorn and the shipwreck of life's esteems.
for all the endless lines i had penned on your pages with red ink...one yours and one mine and then one yours again. don't be hurt. of course we will do this tomorrow again. and then one day the section of that notebook shall race to halt and we won't know how to carry on or whether to carry on at all.
we shall look at each other lost and disoriented and hope that one of us would turn the page and start the next section. and our hands will not budge. though in our minds the next lines are already written. signed. sealed.
this is my long walk back.
days of listening to stories that are not mine and wondering how i fit into that. but i am as much a part of it as the words that narrate it. i will hear you out. because there is a reason why you turned to me. i will never fail you when it comes to that. i will hear you.
now.
tomorrow.
and forever.
as long as i may breathe in purpose to give you hope that someone is listening.
so what if that someone is just me...?

esc

rain clouds and the absence of sun.
tears dry on eyelashes.
the fragile petals of the parted lips whisper silence.
dry. parched. drowned.
this is me then.
the broken fragments of a dysfunctional life.
abundant love. love made and snatched away between the messed up sheets and fragrant pillows.
the bloodline of royalty from slashed wrists.
regal. pampered. deprived.
this is not me then.
esc.

the man who would not be shot

this is about one person. i do not have the liberty to name him or to put his picture up here. maybe i will- but that is left for decision once my discourse has been completed.
he is the man who would not be shot. in his raging existance he denies everyone around him an impression of himself. no one is allowed to claim him, or his shadow. he couldn't allow that. he was under tremendous social pressure to appear the way he does. confusing and so terribly stubborn. maybe marginally deranged.
but purely in appearence. purely.
he may have deined me the most basic joy of having a picture of his and saving it as a contact picture etc, etc, etc. but he has allowed me to look inside his psyche. why? i don't really know. but i am glad i looked.
he has loads of photographs with those he calls friends. and maybe in time he will allow us the priviledge of being called his friends. maybe it will be worth the wait. maybe not. maybe he will deny all claims. as always.
but without taking offence at his behaviour i proceed to write about what i have found inside. no absurdities.
a soul that survives on dark prophesies and fragments of himself being torn out to give to people. a human being who is scared to love for he fears the hatered that follows love.
to explain-
when you love someone so deeply that the beloved becomes something you are wierdly possessive about. you become so possessive that your life spins out of control and hurles itself mercilessly against stone walls of reality. and shatters to sharp shards of pure hate. so much so hate that you want to destroy a beautiful thing. so horribly fight club- strange- but true. but what our man here does is- tears graffiti -that he has himself created. perfect and so devastatingly beautiful.
he wants love. he wants friends. but he won't reach out. he fears the cycle of love, hate and torn graffitis. it's natural. we are all allowed that much fear.
there are moments that words and tears slip out. doped or not. sober or not. and unfortunately i have chronicled them in my head somewhere. and the idea that he way ever draw strength from me over whelms me to tears. not that i don't want to be his strength. i fear that my strength will not be enough.
and the day he turns to me- we shall exchange places. if he would let me be him. it is just that- i understand. i understand every displaced emotion and every hate mail. i understand the solitude and the fear of being alone. i understand the chessboard patterns.
for the rest of us- we are greys. the man who wouldn't be shot is just black and white.

reality.tv.show.

you are not your mistakes.
you are not every man and you are not me.
but you will know when the world screeches to a deathly halt and you shiver out of fear and helplessness rather than the cold.
it has happened to me not once but times over.
and it will happen again.
the tight dryness in your throat and the tears that won't come out, agony, shame and the absence of arms around the shaking shoulders.
when she spoke i felt the blood rushing to my feet. i felt drained and blank. like every last breath in my body had been battered out with a blow. just one hard blow. she cried. i hugged her tight and kept telling her that it was ok. it was ok. always. would be ok.
i would not forgive myself for lying and holding my tears back till she left. and when she left. i broke down.
i cried cupious tears of anger and shame. and the person responsible was blissful. unaware.
at that instance all my faith and all my dreams were being raped to reality. brutally. bleeding like fresh knife wounds on the skin. someone held me. someone put her hand on my head and told me that it would be ok.
of course it would be ok.
it would always be ok.
when i lifted my tear stained cheeks i swore that i would not love again but inside my psyche the need to be loved was haunting. i probably needed to be held more than ever. ever in my life.
it is hard. it always always is so hard.
but then...
your doors are always open for me.
right.