leech.

 i had always imagined myself as a writer. or a doctor. but that's on the other end of a spectrum abandoned.

writers are sick people. ugly people. in fact, i have never liked writers. there are words branching out from under their nails, extending tributaries within paper. writers bear a strong angry narcissism, that crushes people. it is evil being a writer. to force a tear in thought, to build out of nothing - is only birthed from a horrifying loneliness.
that is what scares me about writers.
how lonely can one be to word out a lie yet to be lived. how sad.

writers are a precipitate of the people's faith in a god.
they have this separatist identity. the narrator factor. 
i hate writers. 

i dip a pen into the ink bowl. the red bleeds through the paper shamelessly. after a long time the heart has stopped fighting. the paper looks messy. and i get angry. again. 
my muse lies in the bed. she is green from sickness. i bend down and whisper, "run. either way, one of us will have blood on their hands."

leeches are interesting creatures. bearing an unlearned urge to need. 
i empathize.
i too, at times am parasitic. 
hanging on for blood until swatted away. 
they need blood to grow, they don't understand. 
to need.
so desperate.


i am not happy unless it is someone else's happiness. all the happiness i feel is stolen.
all i own is despair.

i wish i could trick a child into giving hers to me.
i am selfish like that.

-

i have always liked being alone. somehow it does not equate to the loneliness people usually feel. personally, it is never a singular experience. 
i was used to segregating myself into pieces to solve my emptiness as a kid. most of time time, it was much easier to create my own people than inject in them the understanding i was born with. 

the page looks at me with a pity nobody else holds.
tells me i am a pain addict.
i feel small in front of my words.
once they escape the tips of my fingers, they no longer belong to me.

i wonder if leeches ever feel lonely.

-

to find listeners in this world, is a rarity. i try to be as good a listener i can, to the people around me. (here, this sounds selfless. this in fact is not. i am an observant writer. i simply look for stories) 

once someone had asked me, why the same thing kept killing them over and over again.
that day i was a little sad. i had said, perhaps you have not stopped loving it. the day you stop, you will                                                                 feel nothing.

i have already said too much. i want my secrets back. 
all you are is a child, and i have made you swallow the time i was not given.
i have made you a parent i did not have.

i have too many apologies lodged in the back of my throat.
but i am too tired to speak anymore. 
there is fault in feeling so much.
at one point,
you stop feeling at all.

this unpredictability governs me.

i have never thanked it, this impulse. usually, it is never good.

it is too cold in this house. 

- 
  - love is to change. love is to destroy.
-

my hands smell of cigarettes i have never smoked.
the smell reminds me of a terrace. of an edge with no barrier. and a maternal anger that looms. 
i hate the smell of cigarettes.
not because it tastes like plastic suffocation,
but because i don't like the concept of it.

i don't condone things based on conscience. i condone things when i understand the concept of its utility. 
i also do not like its stale scent.

as a person who has made a home out of herself, 
i have been comfortable with only very few scents.
baby powder that ma put on rhea
my hair when i wake up early in the morning
my clothes after mita didi brings them into the closet
a place on my shoulder
the green blanket
ma's office things
nala

i hate new scents.
when i say that it sounds animal. but i do.
but that mix of fruit and detergent and shampoo, i seem to look for now.
it worries me when i leave home too often.
it worries me when i realize my body is getting comfortable.

-

i imagine myself on a chair someday asking somebody, sugared with underlying hypocrisy-
why do you think you tend to find pain in the good experiences you get ?

because it feels good. all i have ever felt is the pain. 

the goodness feels saccharine.

you're not supposed to be here. 
i know.

i know.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

                                                       The Lunatic - Hugues Merle (1871)