I know I had cut too deep.

I am sorry.

Maybe there will be another time and a better face.

THE LOVED FRAGMENT

It was one of those sad, vivid moments when what you love becomes a product that your body is made to reject in an angry vehemence of red. You remember the searing pain, the hot tears in your eyes, the cold clammy hands and the gradual mental degradation of everything and anything around you breaking up and falling. One fragment at a time.
As a discussion took place before me- I wanted to interject and say that I know what it feels like. I know. I have been there. I know that I kill myself before I am there again.
As much as I had wished for the courage to take a positive, this massive negative in me was sick to the core. I wanted it to stop and leave my insides. I could not handle myself so disoriented and broken. I forgot that I was doing everything wrong. I didn’t care. I just wanted to stop feeling sick and tangentially off my normal course of being. It was like my body and my mind was rejecting the boring normal.
Suddenly the years of cynicism got blown away. And a fragment became a product that I had to eject. A product. What a strange mathematical term. A term that was twisting my life on a pivot, dipping towards the forbidden and the fear as gracefully as it dipped away from calm and happiness.
And I wanted to hold your hand and tell you- that this moment, this product that I am trying to eject- will change our lives forever. We can never go back to being what we used to. This ‘product’, this burst of colour into my being and some moments of inane helplessness in you, when you can just hold my hands and let me cry. We have not back tracked. We have not moved ahead. We are stuck in this dangerous limbo that will undo the meaning of being and of love. What can we do?
There we were, running, tumbling, playing in this reverie that would not let us go. There was no more laughter. Just a sense of deep foreboding that echoed like a heartbeat. Very precise. Very regular and so very meticulously recorded. Playing like children who were on this perpetual summer holiday, tired of playing on the swings, yet our feet would not touch the ground. We could not stop. This hurtling force that propelled us towards this broken blue sky and then rushing towards the brown- and we kept moving. Fragmented, in tiny pixels. So as every time we rushed towards the sky or back to earth- little picture pixels floated away, ungluing itself from our spirit and mind.
And then there was this clean white light. Like hot white anger and shame that covered me up in clinical neatness. Unguarded and unprotected, I exploded in this riot of feelings that forced me to take the pain. Refuse help of any kind. In any and all forms. Solitude was the only calming force in the storm. There were so many questions we would never have answers to. We could only play them over and over again in our heads and create answers for our oen satisfaction. Brown eyes or black? Pink or blue? A dreamer or a realist?
But what was – was dead and going.
And I do not know whether these answerless rhetorics were harder for me or for you. But this is not a gauge of sincerity or feelings. Rather a self imposed confession. Father, I have sinned.

Love demands something beautiful. Something ephemeral and perfect; from a distance of lingering eyes that search of that one moment of permanence. It demands a sense of completion and wholeness.
Of images of ourselves that are fragmented with pretence. For we cannot afford to be who we really are if we want to be loved.
The shortcomings, the flaws, the million failures shine like stars on the shoulders of fallen soldiers. WE have earned those accolades after years of darkness- we never wear it with pride. We give it the limelight of shame. "Look at me- I am a failure! But you won't get to see it- for I will show you what shines. Or what I think- shines."

Familiar. Construct. Myths.

The familiar kind of love is happening. To know how exactly it feels to have you around. Sleep next to you. To have your arm around me all night. To see you leave in the morning, spending the last few moments. It has just been so little time. How did we get this familiar?

Can we make do with this familiar kind of love?



We are all constructs. Constructed meticulously by ourselves for the people we want. If we want love from them- we all must be a certain way. For at some point we are convinced that we are not worthy of love just the way we are. We are that incomplete, that imperfect and that desperate to be that perfect construct that someone may love.
Why must we be such constructs even when we go around telling everyone that I am perfectly comfortable in my skin. But which skin is this?


Being complete is a myth.
Thinking that I cannot do without you is a myth.
My life falling apart in to deplorable fragments when you touch me – is a myth.
Your kisses are a myth.
Your skin melting to my touch is a myth.
The longer I linger in your eyes. The harder it is for me to write about it.