musings of a ceiling fan.

 a dead crow. wings tucked in, warm for the winter.

it looks a lot like the flower arrangements on the passing bridal car.

i don't think it's a good omen. for the flowers to resemble dead crows.

a dead rat. teeth stuck out. strange. still. as if carefully taxidermed. 

i don't feel so well these days.

i wish i was more organized.

-

it is scary how i delve deep into things.

how i explore the seas that people are.

how i let the water run through my fingers.

how i discover homes i could've loved. lived.

how i swim without ever learning how to.

it is scary
the affection settling into the comfort of blue.

the realization that i don't belong there.

the smile that comes after it.

the way i quietly swim up to the shores.

with wet sand in my pockets.

as if i never visited the seaside at all.

perhaps if i was sent away, like they sent away many many sick girls to the seaside, i'd be better. 

~ do keep writing them, even when i'm not here.
don't say that.

~ jo, i have to tell you-

no you don't !

~ i've had a very long time to think about this, and i'm not afraid.

no.

~ it's like the tide going out. it goes out slowly, but it can't be stopped.

(silence)
i'll stop it !

(moves closer to beth, head on her shoulder)
i've stopped it before.

the two sit close, in a tight embrace. hoping the moment doesn't pass.

hoping it stays for dinner , at least.

-

yesterday i dreamt about having a miscarriage. it was strange. there was so much blood pooling down, and tissue paper too frail to soak it in. 

it was similar to the feeling i got when the store attendant realised i had taken something i did not pay for. i should've been sorry, but i wasn't. i was angry at him. thinking, how dare he realise. angry at myself for not being good at my craft.

that happened only once, though.

i remember trying to lose the child in the dream. many times after the miscarriage. as if, some part of it was left behind . fragments of death in me. how grotesque. 

i died at the end of that dream.

i don't like recalling dreams.

i don't like remembering blood fill the crevices of the mismatched pavement. 
red, yellow, red , yellow, yellow, red, red, red, yellow.

-

anger does not stay for breakfast. it leaves a dent beside you on the bed. you think, oh god. not again.

you tend to clean up the mess it leaves behind. 

the coca cola on the white floor. the gift wrappers tucked behind the bed because the bin was too far.

your morning after self is disgusted. 

you sigh and get off the bed.

the bathroom mirror is smudged with finger prints. 

oh my god guys please take a decent picture

the mirror looks at you in disapproval. your face looks tired. even after the hours of sleep you pretended to get in bed. you remind yourself, sleeping is not equivalent to doing nothing during the sleep hours.

the bathroom is too loud from last night. the sound has not left its walls.

the only sound you hear is the sound of the pee trickling into the toilet.

you make yourself a promise to drink more water today.

cold water hits your face, but it makes no difference. you need a thorough cleanse. and a good breakfast. 

you only get one today.

you step out of the bathroom and the place reeks of people.

a piece of tape sticks to your sole. the day is already unappealing to you now. the tape makes it worse.

there's icing on the floor.

you let out an exhausted sound. 

i love you guys man- hey ! no phones here please everybody participate-

your own voice is too loud. everything is too loud. there is no mute button. you are annoyed again.

your eye falls on a black bag.

screw you how many girls do you get huh ? ple- please. uh huh uh huh

you frown. another to do on the to do list.

you remember a joke. you smile. 

the counter is messy. you grab a rag you find and get to work. 

i am going to make this cake look artsy trust me very uh van gogh

the morning after version of yourself is clearly irritated now. by yourself the most. you try to wipe the quirkiness away.

you are not yet grounded in front of people. 

your phone buzzes with another missed call. people should never call the morning after. it is your ritual.

you see a text. 

you feel bad.

you always do.

but then again

you have a habit of hiding a lot. your replacement does not charm people as easily as you do.

the verandah smells of smoke.

you don't care anymore.

please don't smoke- no please. i'm asking yo-

you look down at the street like it's a video on loop being resumed again.

you rest your head against the sill. you want to cry. but you don't.

you feel your pockets and find a rubberband.

seriously? this is yours take it

a paper ring

(gives hand) please yes thank you for the engagement ring (receives a smile that stirs a foetal guilt inside originally fostered by a jealousy-fed-spite)

a chocolate. you don't eat chocolates. unless it's bubbly. 

the other rooms have the bedsheets crumpled. you shake your head. they're good kids, you think.

the clock ticks loudly, echoing in the silence of the place.

you need to get home. it's getting late. people will come over. you have to get ready.

-

i read somewhere the other day

' all is done to be forgotten.'

i was alone at home that day. in the terrace. listening to the neighbours in the house adjacent to ours.

raging out all the things they have done for each other.

i sat there in the cold for a while

murmuring to myself

the saddest thing i read on the internet that day

all is done to be forgotten.

the sky was lost that day. in the fog and mist and branches. yet i remembered the star. 

i wondered where she was that night.

breathing the same air as me ? what an honour.

i could not see her. yet i all i wanted was to sit with her, in that silence. 

to watch her experience life in all the ways i could not.

still, i would not like to use her as a tool for cheap vicariousness.

i know i'm often talking to a sky, like many others do.

but that night, i hoped the star could hear me whisper.

-

a nebula is a giant cloud of dust and gas in space. some nebulae come from the gas and dust thrown out by the explosion of a dying star. other nebulae are regions from where new stars are beginning to form.

it is said, that one day when they have sinned beyond reason, beyond forgiveness, the nebula will surround them, surround them with her clouds of comfort.

does she know we bleed the same ?

-

                                                           unknown. unspoken of.