I am a person who lives well in solitude. I am not lonely. And although some days, people may find themselves offended by my strict adherence to such an adventure, I take no pride in it. When I have the luxury, I prefer to look deep into the bottom of my cup when I drink coffee than to look above it. Take me out of it and I’ll famish. My creativity is stimulated when I’m left in discourse with my true self. Let me dwell on it in order to find the world in a much lighter perspective. The blackness of the room is sunlight to me so when I want to breathe, I just need to be.
Here I lie writing an escape of emotion
As I settle in this room I long of breaking free
I’m thinking of many things
Yet, none of them I take of much importance
I’ve always loved acquaintances
Fear that when they’re gone
I too; be lost
I hate loquacity
I’m not even convinced of this dire stupidity
Walking alike in a gloomy wilderness
Confused of which road to partake
I’m neither the great Thespis who’s adamant in tragedy and drama
Nor Epicurus who enjoys the grandeur of pleasures
Not even Li Po who makes boats and drinks wine with the moon
Not even Shakespeare and King Arthur or any one
I’m a nobody.
But in this dark raven I’m someone who can be like them
As I slowly drift, my strength ebbs
Don’t want to lose my grip
Oh but Alas! Reject their comfort
I despise the idea of asking for their company
I’m a pessimist.
They’ll never be happy of me
It’s the same old feeling… It has always been
True, silence is much more deafening without friendships and friends
I’ve wanted to touch them but the nearer I come the farther they go..!
Time has lost its consideration as circumstances drive them away
Emptiness and loneliness rule over devouring me just in the nick of time
In this one solitude moment I feel my tears escaped
But don’t mind them they are but the traditional melodrama
People come and go but few remain a stain on you
Yet hope is scarce as time travels fast
So I have to play my role
to make-believe in something that never sprouts to life
Wishes and longings are fading in the air like the gentle smoke in the chimney
So in this one solitude moment I’ll be waiting!
Maybe we were just that.
When you thought I was something and
I thought just about the same.
Maybe we were nothing.
When we believed we swam; hearts the same.
When we supposed we were in love
Meeting the hearts and the minds.
Nothing. Maybe we were just that.
Even if I read the word backwards, it only gave me
Perhaps it meant
Don’t put a thing on us or a label–between us
Cos we were NOTHING.
Maybe this was NOT love.
Maybe we were not in love.
He never knew I was a writer. Or that at least I write. He knew I studied Literature but he never asked what it was. He didn’t know I loved books but he knew I read. He never knew anything until I told him so. Still he never knew anything because he dared not to know.
Stir fry my body like that of pork fresh from a newly slaughtered pig. Include my fingers and toes to add you the blazing chills. So that when you eat it for breakfast, lunch or dinner your mouth will remember the infinitesimally rotten taste of the body you emptied thrice when you closed the door and left without a thinning word. Cut my limbs and put them onto a barbecue skewer then steam them til they wrinkle and complain. When you’re done, peel off my skin. Turn them into an armor and wear them like it’s popular; en vogue. So that the next time I throw back the hatred you gave me, you’ll not perish but you’ll reek with the irreparable blemish.
He never knew I was a writer. Or that I still am. He never knew how he came to be the words in my poems, the voice in my poetry I relentlessly listen to and sing at noon when it was the hottest and at midnight when it was the coldest. He never knew I wrote about him; us. Still he never knew why I couldn’t do that anymore. For what these pens and journals were for? When they were persecuted by their own coordinates and momentum?
Even after our marriage, he never was open and willing to know all about me. But I knew all too well about him because all those times we were together I tried learning and knowing all about him. Rubbing the rough edges of his skin, strumming the holes in his heart and blowing his inborn tattoo of hatred and insecurity off his body.
I knew I was a writer. I still am. But my hands, the pages in my notebook and the ink of my pen no longer recognized him. They could no longer be moved by his slightest thrill.
Many times I became exactly that weeping writer his heart forbade to view.
I find myself undefined. Looking through the window from a room I thought I knew. That misty view from a distance creates a vacuum I try to fight. Always containing the memories I can only look through from this distance.
Pain. It always hurts.
To be always reminded of the shards I held close for you. Sometimes I think I was a sacrifice. To help you shine through the night.
But I never heard you say a ‘thank you’ Or a simple ‘how are you.’
Perhaps I truly am just a sacrifice. Holding nothing but just that word.
That word that leaves me a little undefined til now.