Thursday, September 13, 2012

Of men who make life worth living.



Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer by Caspar David Friedrich



If someone had told me that I was just like everyone else in my responses to the emotional ramshackle of life, I would have scoffed at them just like everyone else does. And yet between the perplexity of being and doing, the 72 hours he didn’t speak to me ostracised me with the rest of humanity. I stood by Titian’s Diana for hours, wishing for the power to destroy a man with a few drops of water. I thought about duality and virtue and pregnant nymphs. But there is no art or higher beauty in the way your first love can desiccate you by its turbulent absence. You start to question ritual. The kohl in your eyes starts to smudge. There’s a chaotic pointlessness in every cog of existence.

And so it was for me. All day, I wished for him, finding faults in myself which I didn’t know qualified. I was just like everyone else. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I lost the will to talk and the courage to laugh. I lay around thinking of where I had gone wrong, if I had loved too much, expressed too little.  It was a miserable, miserable feeling. Perhaps it was because my heart was holding on to a summer which was nearly over. Perhaps it was because I had too much time. He was incredulity and he was faith. He harboured the cynicism of a forty-year-old but dreamed like he was twenty. He was German in the daily rituals of life, but with a French disposition. Like a young, sexy Jean-Claude Trichet. But I thought he didn’t love me because it was too difficult. Because I laughed too much, and too loud. And because we were separated by the soft borders of the Schengen area.  And that one haunting thought ricocheted inside my neural membranes till I lost the desire to desire.

At night, I returned to my unsuspecting husband. We consummated as if from a cook book, or an Ikea manual. It was listless, and unpassionate, and brief. He said he would cry if I wouldn’t stop being so broken so I told him that I loved him and he fell asleep in the comfort of what was perhaps still a half-truth. I did love him – I had to - because I could say anything, be anyone, leave him a thousand times and he would still take me back, no questions asked, choosing instead to dwell in the dark recesses of unrequited love.

In the early hours of the morning, I was down to my fourth cigarette and wanted so much to be comforted. Because in wanting both of them, I had none of them. It was jarring. I thought about exemptions from morality, and red wine, and Minotaurs and Fawns uncovering sleeping women for Rembrandt and Picasso. I wanted to be comforted with words and with silences, but where was I supposed to find someone who didn’t question my motives when I sought solace? Where was I supposed to find someone who understood my erratic trivialities? Where was I supposed to find someone who just accepted with a smile that I simply got along better with men?

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Point of No Return (20-02-2011)






Wind in the winter trees, cherry blossoms with no blossoms.
 
Saturday dusks, blanketed hum drum of crickets, a longing finger along the smooth of skin.
Rain in your city, fog in mine, a soap and water bubble floats across scalded fields


You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge,
in pursuit of that wish, which till now has been silent,
silent . .


On days like this, I’d spend with you in this room.
You sit on that chair.
The faint light through the frosted acid etched glass on your face.
I’d sit in the rain, opposite to you in the balcony.
You don’t need to get wet, you’ll get cold.
I want you to see me, in the rain.
I’d close my eyes, killing all the noise.
You should keep looking.
And we won’t talk.
For hours

I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge -
in your mind you've already succumbed to me
dropped all defences, completely succumbed to me -
now you are here with me: no second thoughts, you've decided,
decided . . .


We don’t need to talk when you are here in this room
You’d understand everything
I don’t have to say anything
Words would be noise
I’m yours and you are mine
Take from me, give to me
Bite me, kiss me, touch me, push me, breathe into me,
I won’t resist anything.

You have brought me to that moment where words run dry,
to that moment where speech disappears into silence,
silence . .


Days like this, you’ll spend with me in this room
I will be everyone for you who was always absent, always busy, always far away
My fingers will graze your knuckles
In the dim of the spotlights, our shadows will touch
I’d close my eyes and steady my breath
You should keep looking
I will let you kiss the sound of my heart beat
I want you to see me in love

I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why …
In my mind, I've already imagined our bodies entwining
defenceless and silent -
and now I am here with you: no second thoughts, I've decided,
decided..


When you lie next to me, you’ll understand everything
I will let you taste my tears
I will say the words you’ve longed to hear
You will see how broken I have been under it all
How much in pain, how longing,
And I will let you fix me

Past the point of no return
the final threshold -
the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn . . .

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Avoiding Reality.


As the rubab stirs a high note, your steps become a dance. When it slows down, it becomes the melancholic sighs of your longing. When it stops altogether, it becomes his sleeping breaths on the bed next to yours in a countryside where no one knows your names.

Through celebratory lakesides in foreign countries, and castles which the British don't know how to build, and chunks of tortellini thrown out in a creamy bile, your mind tries to find faults which it can't forgive in him. He is arrogant, but so are you. You love how rudely clinking china offends him to no end. He kisses you in trains full of people because he refuses to apologize for what he wants. He is damaged- that much is clear. But he is also brave, and he puts a strong face though you can see that life has dealt him a very bad hand. He tells you it makes him difficult, and very complicated. He thanks you for tea. He thanks you for every conversation. He thanks you for every kiss. You don't understand how one man can turn everything upside down.

He complains that you are very straightforward. You say one thing, and mean exactly that. That you are kind, because you stroke his hair when he is upset.  That you make yourself too vulnerable, because you sleep with your head on his chest. That you are funny, because you cure migraines with absurd stories. He says he cannot make peace with these things, that he must talk to you less because it's painful not to be able to see you every single day.

But he is scared of being in love- he actively looks for reasons not to be- though he has been with so many before. And maybe that should be a fault which you shouldn't forgive.