the pebble of sisyphus

 i've bled for you. who else can say that?

that line haunts me. like slow poison swallowing whole. 

that line, was the beginning of a letter. one that begged my godhood into animal form. i remember never sending that letter, saving myself from the one thing i had not done yet. 

a final scream that ripped me open.

the death card.

i've been asked what my favourite card is. that is my favourite card.

the end of a cycle. the beginning of another.

i get the death card every time. 

it doesn't matter whether you keep fate in your hands or not. fate is inescapable, in every possibility, in every timeline. often, it looks like an ugly adaptation of adonis' myth. 

there is a strange melancholia associated with this levitation from everything that grows.

i still haven't learnt how to walk. let alone run. 

i just keep flying, and writing in indented sentences.

girls are such half formed creatures.

-

i thought falling in love was an ironic falling for the self. as i age a year older, live through a few more of my fears, i think i incline towards improvisation on that thought. 

falling in love, i think, involves a certain birth. 

a responsibility left at your door, like a stork bundle.

uninvited, pink, and curiously irresistible.

a wonderful deception of parenthood, with a hope that lingers only in stores selling baby clothes. you sit for a while, wondering whether you would trade this sweet smelling risk for the barricaded indifference you dress yourself in every day.

here lies the perverse pleasure in the pain of loss - possibility.

or on the other hand, 

probability.

yet it is only predictability that speaks to you after the curtain call.

before a gruesome death. 

all the funerals i have been to are the same. the grief, almost always is angry. almost always foetal. and i almost always sit with this undead creature until it rots. until i can bury it. and then go home in time for dinner.

i had been eating dinner alone for sometime now.

however, this was not my child.

all my children have been dirtied.

-

i am filled with a desire for clarity and meaning within a world and condition that offer neither.

oh well.

-

i have run from everything good around me. the profoundness with which i usually express this, cannot escape the fact that i have. when asked why i did so, i had no worthy response. i could blame it on the hunger for an explicit deprivation. i could say i left my affections at addresses i no longer remembered. i could also say i did not recognize love without hurt. 

that is not a nice sentence for good people to hear.

so instead i told them that i was a kid. i knew no better.

empathy is often selfish, i have come to realise.

i have never run from misery. the statement radiates a tone of self righteousness i still do not bear. on the border between neutrality and agony, one can find danger. therein lies the addiction of consequence, of peril. the addiction of the heat below the skin before it starts to burn.

cheating pain takes discipline. when you do not have that, you start to sink on the other side, and your finger begins to burn.

that is when your indefinite dissociation breaks. 

and you realise how much emotion the world truly holds.

you can keep cursing yourself,

but you've drowned too deep by then.

and all you can let out are bubbles.

five more minutes (an old dyscalculia you have never learnt to lose)

i promise

-

death is not pretty like in the movies. it is loud and angry and it battles every second on the clock. they never do go gently into that good night. 

the irony is that most melancholics do not ask for immortality. most take whatever remnants of the body they have, and look for flesh that completes them. incompleteness has always been the subconscious struggle.

after the first few times, the skin pigments with the tears that separate the conjoined.

but nothing else quenches their thirst for agony like these tears. so they do it again. and again.

each time, a little more cruel.

run,

but run back to what kills you.

because the only sensation you've known,

is loss.

in the end, they call you a runner.

not a survivor.

not a devotee.

neither an addict

nor a typhlotic.

a runner.

like the green ones on the plants.

-

as i sit here, i can tell you the two things i realised. one, that i can no longer mock religious dedication with undying confidence. experiential understanding is valuable, but more than often, i realise i cannot afford it. 

and two, a belief in the intangible lives to be one of the strongest things in this universe. whether in a god, in fate or in love.

-

there must be nothing floating above me, says man. all must live through the misery of hope.

there must be nothing sinking beneath me, says man. all must be light, irreal and dainty.

and all must keep the bathroom door open when they pee, says man. like i do. 

i must not feel humiliated.

                                                           The Myth Of Sisyphus - Titian.