Her Past and Make Up

February 25, 2014 § Leave a comment


“Why me?” she sighed, “Why is it always me? What did I do to deserve this?” She would blame herself for what has happened a decade ago, and fed her mind with negative thoughts until it overloaded, as sugar would saturate in a cup of hot tea. She loved the sight of makeup, and would run outside of her house, into her comfort zone, into a shop that sells makeup. She would never apply it, only buy it, perhaps she would do that to pressure her parents financially, but that was not the case. She was in love with the way it would cover people, hide their so-called “flaws”; she was in love with the idea of applying a line above the eye, making one look a whole lot ‘prettier’. She loved how it represented another person, another form of a person, a form which people would relish the site of. Despite that, she would not apply it, she would only keep it and apply it on others. She would see makeup stores as a place of a second-chance, because she could buy the eyeliner and mascara, and place it in her purse and walk anywhere in the city. Her comfort zone would be an arm’s reach away, and whenever she would feel afraid, or alone, she would take it out, apply it on others and watch their features change into someone else.

It fascinated her how people could change mentally after the applying of makeup, how they appeared confident and enthusiastic, how it is as though they had unlocked a boost in a video game ; “Confident level : 2 points bonus”. She is an observer, and kept her thoughts for herself, because she did not want anyone to know what she has done.

She remembered reading “You are not special. You were simply there when it happened, life did not look at you and say “Yes, you, I choose you. I choose despair upon you.” No. It is not like that”. It took her three days and nights to assimilate that into her mind. “You are not special”, a phrase that replayed in her head as she would repeat the thought of what happened that night, over and over and over. Her conclusion was, that really, we are not special, we are but species wandering on earth, around the universe, trying to make ourselves seem of any significance ; trying to understand the plants that do not speak loud enough for us to hear, the amphibians who we only watch crawl, the stars and the entirety of the world we live in.

She started to look at her surroundings, no, not look at them, but see them. She would see the people complain “Why me?” and she would think “It’s not you”, although she never admit that to herself. The thought of it started to crawl back from the depths of her mind, down to her throat, and lungs, into her heart. The thought clutched her heart, so tightly, that she could no longer speak, and found it difficult to breathe. So she ran to her comfort zone, she bought the lipstick, applied it this time. People told her that she looked like Rose from the ’97 movie, because her lips would turn red as the blood, her favourite colour, and her eyebrows bold, as her confidence would boost a +2.

She crossed the street to the beach, her second comfort zone, with the lipstick in her bag, and abruptly fell to the sand. She fell backwards, as though trusting that the shore will hold her and build a bed for her comfort; yet when people tell her to fall for them, she cannot. She trusts the grains of the sand as they are affixed to her wet feet, and the sound of the waves as they speak to her, and wind that kisses her neck. She trusts the nature, and not the people, because they can hug, but not so tightly, and they can speak, but not so sincerely, and they can kiss with wide eyes. The thought of humans startled her, so she would shut her eyes and trust the ocean, trust that which is the most true it can ever appear to be.

This is the entity of people, they clench onto objects, like makeup, and find comfort in them. They cling on to other people and depend on them for their own well-being, they do not trust themselves, yet they trust the ants, the people, and the streets. Although when they sit alone, with the company of their thoughts, they remember, and they do not find comfort in painting these memories, or writing or singing about them, or speaking of them. They keep them confined behind the bars in the jail cell that is their mind. She said she loved history yet did not read about it, and loved writing but did not pursue it. She did, however, appreciate old buildings. She loved absolutely everything about them, the faint colour of the paint, the cracks, the dust on the side track and the authenticity in them. She saw the history embodied in their very form, and wondered about the people who moved in and out, the date, how obsolete, and, merely everything. It was the nearest to the past she could reach, making her wonder if she could ever go back, and fix everything she has done a decade ago.

Timeline

February 24, 2014 § 2 Comments

for Muna

Age nine,
I’d cry when summers came
because it represented
our separation
for two months
or three
and that was too long
a period
to part

Age ten,
you cried to me
on the phone
because your best friend
had been murdered
and I hated cancer
for killing her
and I hated myself
for joking
when I couldn’t reply

Age eleven,
your mother found out
about what we did,
in the park
and she was exasperated
she was mad
and she no longer liked us

Age twelve,
they stole you away
from us
and you would cry
at night
then say that
everything was alright
because you did not trust me
but who are you
to blame

Age thirteen,
it was time
you left away
a separate continent
we hugged
once, twice, thrice
I cried
unable to fathom
the reality
that your father
was not joking
this time

Age fourteen,
I sunk
deep into depression
it got hold of me
like the waves
that night
and I did not talk to you
as often
as the year
before

Age fifteen,
we spoke
at least weekly
and would
make sure
we were okay,
you rescued me
and I forgot to thank you

Age sixteen,
I met you again
but it lasted
only so long; a day
or two
because you had to leave.
I hugged you
once, twice, thrice
another, after the other
and I wouldn’t let go
“Please don’t leave,
Just stay”
and I knew,
that couldn’t happen.

Now we are closer
than ever
and I miss you
and I recall
everything
and it feels like a dagger
stabbing me
in the chest
once, twice, thrice
every time
I pass by the door
where we said our goodbyes,

and when you left,
I fell to the ground
I bawled
and bawled
and bawled
and now,
I cry
and I hope
the next time
you don’t leave
and stay.

Ibtisamah

February 24, 2014 § 1 Comment

for A.

I remember laughing during class
when everyone thought
I was mocking someone
when in fact
I remembered you
and something you said.
making me giggle,
forming an instant smile on my face.

I remember walking on the pavement
looking to my side
re-imagining us
discussing things we wouldn’t discuss
with anyone else.
or at least, with very few
and you’re of those few.

I remember waking up early, wondering
if perhaps I did
because you like the morning
unlike me
for I love the dark
but maybe, I’ve learnt to like the light
because you adapt
to what the people
you love, love.

I miss you now
when you’re so far away
and I cannot call this a poem
because It is not,
it is but jumbled sentences:
thoughts that I meet daily
when I remember you.

My mother told me
that I seemed carefree
and I was thinking of you,
I gave in a smirk
and told her there are no worries
that I was happy
when to myself
I knew it was because
I had remembered something
you said,
making me smile
again, as every day.

Ignorant People

February 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

I wrap my head around my arms
in hopes to isolate myself
from the people
and their gibberish,

every sound that shrieks out of their mouth
pierces through my brain
as I would imagine a bullet
aimed towards my frontal cortex,

except: it is slow,
a tsunami
that runs off the shore
quickly blasting my thoughts.

their scorching words
kill me
and their oblivious behaviour
upsets me,

when they offend their nation
and criticize the people,
yet here I am
copying them
by criticizing them.

It is a spreading epidemic
on earth
and in my head
so I swallow a pill
in hopes to reduce the pain
and erase them from my mind,

my eyes slowly shut
my dreams fade into reality.
the monsoon too early this time,
it starts again.

(T)itle 48

February 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

One by one
they fell to the grave
as dominoes line up
and descend into defeat

Apart from the last one;
the hope
the dream
the goal
struggling to stand still,
like a paper burning
and the ashes forming
when it disappears
into thin air
and dissociates on the ground,
like dreams that die
when protestors stop, the rebellion
and call it a revolution.

Call us the terrorists!
when it is they who slaughter
the women and children
the elderly and the broken

It did not matter
for they wanted our land
not our country
not our people
nor the culture we represented
for they did not care
for us.

We would fall
one, one, one
and the atmosphere collapsed
when the last one
fell to the ground,
when the last one
could not hold on longer,

And we questioned
if we ever matter
to the others,
and we questioned
if there is need
to hold on to the tree
when it is burning;
“should we burn
or flee?”
for our people
for our religion
for our country.

One by one,
we surrendered.

This is not myself

February 20, 2014 § Leave a comment

You are not in love with me
you are in love with her,

she who speaks through my vocal cords
moves distances by my legs and feet
kisses you with my lips
and strokes my hand over your hair.

You are not in love with me,
you are in love with
the sentences she forms
and the way she says them,

You have not seen me cry
or boil at the sound of noises
or cringe at the sight of slovenliness
or laugh at the ignorant.

I am but a persona
that has been designed
to satisfy your perception,

you only see so much
and claim to know me
when even I,
do not know myself.

Past the Past

February 19, 2014 § Leave a comment

the very fact that I still read your blog
daily, implies that
I do care.

but just because I talk about you
ask about you
wonder about you,

does not mean
that I am not over,
everything

The fact that I am writing this,
almost certain
that you will read it. means
that I have had enough.

it does not concern me
anymore
whether you read it
or not.

I love you.
and I thank you,
for you have lit the fire
in my heart
and my soul.
and I thank you once more,
for this is good bye.

Where Am I?

You are currently viewing the archives for February, 2014 at Swords on Fire.