Underbelly of the Night

Click to enlarge

Oh honey

Oh honey, you wreaked so much havoc.

None of this made any sense to me.

What sort of love was this? What sort?

Was it even love that we felt?

I worked three jobs, tore down walls on weekends

built them back up the next, painted them, planted hooks

for you to hang your favourite pictures.

I saw my ideas for our home slowly being scratched off

and I didn't care because I thought this was how love

was supposed to work. You were all I had.

I just wanted to see that smile upon your face

when you mouthed “I love you” across the dinner table.

Oh honey, sure I faltered on occasions

withdrew into my world because

I felt pulverised by your love

I didn't feel up to the task you had set

I didn't feel like I was good enough for you

yet I carried on for you, just for you

because you said you loved me still.

Oh honey, when I fell asleep at the wheel

lugging back from the hardware shop

you suggested a nap would do me good

then you said you'd love to see the bathroom done

because your parents were visiting next week.

I sure had to plough through this.

Who on earth loves like this?

Oh honey, I told you not to give up

that I had enough strength for the both of us.

I saw you drifting. You became silent.

You were coming home later and later.

You barely looked at my daily evening work

you no longer cared about the decoration

but still you said your love was intact.

Oh honey, I tried to save us from the wreck

but you wanted to collide against the rocks.

You steered our home full sail in the storm

and when it crashed you blamed me

and the rage you flew in I'd never seen.

But you raged in the name of love, you said.

Oh honey, what sort of woman are you?

You stabbed, shot and trampled my heart

and with one twist of your heel I was gone.

Oh honey, you carried my corpse down

the stairs, my limp head banging on each step

and you skidded off the trail of blood and laughed

rolled me up in that old carpet you hated

ditched me in the boot of my car.

And you texted me that you were doing this

and that was an undeniable proof of your love.

What sort of sick lover does this?

I wasn't ready to make any sacrifice

for I had done them all already.

Oh honey, you stripped me of my rights

you let the lawyers strip me of our house

which I had built from the ground up

and then you made sure I had no money left

so I couldn't sue you but I wouldn't have

I still loved you too much for that

for you said you never loved anyone

like you loved me.

Oh honey, I wonder if you ever loved me.

Perhaps I was all wrong and never knew true love

for when you drove through the night

to the seaside where we first dated

stopped right off the cliff

geared the car up, revved the engine

so it shot down and crashed on the rocks below.

Oh honey, you didn't even look back.

What sort of love drove you to do this?

Oh honey, you said you had your reasons

that I didn't look like I cared enough

that you didn't think I loved you enough.

So when I had no job, no money and no house

you saw fit to stab me again, and again,

you spun me around and slit my throat

and nonchalantly shoved me in the bathtub.

Oh honey, what sort of lover are you to let

my feet dangle at such an odd angle?

Where's the decency a dead body deserves?

As if everything we'd lived was forgotten

wiped out the instant you grabbed the knife.

As if I'd lost my humanity altogether.

You got away with all of these murders

only lovers of your kind can achieve this

and oh honey walk away in broad daylight

their hands, like the white bathroom tiles

spattered with blood, carefully cleaning them

waiting for the next prey because you feel

the need to love boiling in your veins.

 

Curated conscience

"The ability of so many people to live comfortably with the idea of capital punishment is perhaps a clue to how so many Europeans were able to live with the idea of the Holocaust: Once you accept the notion that the state has the right to kill someone and the right to define what is a capital crime, aren't you halfway there?"

Roger Ebert, film critic (1942-2013).

As per usual when a quote is taken from a larger text, it makes much more sense when this context is brought back to the surface. You can find the source for the quote in this here interesting film review. It's a fascinating read, even if you haven't watched the movie (Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr.).

Leviathan

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

what words will unparalyse the fearful?

She lay on the side, knees pressed to her chin,

the frail dinghy rocked by relentless swells.

Why they were here didn't really matter –

the fear, the fear only was crucial.

Each word, each gesture amplified the spin

of a churning stomach in a churning hell.

In the end he had no choice but to cover

her face with a jute sack, it was too awful

to see her thus. And much to his chagrin

he had to bind her hands and feet as well.

It took less than a minute to be over.

And because he didn't want to seem cruel

he wrapped her body in a tarpaulin,

and without ballast she sank in a short spell.

The reason why had long stopped to matter –

the guilt and the shame were his sole fuel –

the constant lies for him the ultimate sin

which kept the ghost alive in the shell.

 

All our sunsets

A few days ago, a friend of mine asked me if I remembered the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen, because she had just seen the one she thought would stay with her for the rest of her days, high up in a mountain range. My first instinct was not to ask her to send a picture, but to describe it for me. Interestingly, she hadn't taken any picture of that particular sunset anyway, just as I didn't take any of mine. And today serendipity had it that another friend sent me a picture of the sky from her house, not at sunset but the sun clearly sunk behind the clouds, illumining them from below. The trees and the rooftops already dark. Several different types of clouds clog the sky. I could picture it for you, or include the picture, but that's not my point.

I've always been interested in those moments when we choose not to immortalise them with a picture, but rather with our senses. I didn't write “eyes”, but “senses”, and I think the crux of the matter is precisely here. Those moments are infinitely more profound when we deliberately choose to live them through, and fix them in our memories, however flimsy and transient this repository might prove over time. We forget, we correct, we transform, but perhaps not as much as we think.

This is some sort of a wager against time which we do when we record the greatest sunset we'll ever get to capture with our senses. We choose what gets to stay with us, and rather than a still picture which will be marvellous and will invariably make people think of their greatest sunset, we can describe what it was for us, why it was the greatest, and how the reds, the oranges and the yellows were like a shimmering explosion of colours in the entire sky, as if the world had come to an end and this apocalypse was mesmerising. It was the most amazing spectacle and we felt something inside us being moved to tears, or serenity. Perhaps it even changed us, who knows. It will be marvellous to tell, wonderful to share and will invariably remind our friends of their greatest sunset, or sky, or moonscape.

A snapshot of what we saw may be a more potent trigger for our brains, but those long minutes, perhaps hours, we spent watching this sunset have changed us much more than a picture can ever tell. Because ultimately what my two friends wanted me to see is how happy or serene or nostalgic they were. The sunset, the sky, appealed to something within them, they struck a chord which reverberated and filled them with an overwhelming feeling. And we bonded even more over a sunset we could never see with our own eyes, but we sure felt that sunset running along our spine.

Sure, we can't share a mental sunset with our friends, can we. We have no physical proof of its existence, haven't we. Or perhaps I just did. Its effect on us is what we choose to narrate, because it was inscribed in time. This sunset happened at a particular moment in our life and we soaked up as much as our senses would allow us. The chill in the air, the hotness of the sun-beaten stones, the light breeze of the incoming tide, the sounds of seagulls, perhaps music coming muffled from a party nearby, or perhaps the warmth of the tea in our cold hands. All of these contributed to making this the grandest, most memorable sunset of our lives...till the next came, or not

I was about to wrap up this post when I thought of something. In some weird way, these sunsets are like last words. I was reminded recently of how it's important to always say something meaningful when we part with our friends, and family. We love them, we had a great time, we'll definitely call them soon, thanks so much for coming. I don't remember what my mom's last words were to me, but there's no doubt it was something trivial. Instead, I have the luxury of getting to choose what I remember of her, I deliberately chose which sunset is the greatest for me because I have the clearest of memories of that particular moment, which no amount of pictures could even come close to brush. This sunset, which no one will ever witness, sure vibrates with people when I tell them the story. This sunset, as with all our sunsets, deserve to be immortalised, because at one point who knows, we may want to share them.

 

Fragment #19

Why, in this long string of days,

this one mattered more than the rest?

She was gone beyond reach.

He felt he had failed the test.

He had gone on a long search,

nowhere, and in none, did he find her;

ten years and never even close:

never as smart, never kinder.

 

At the bar

Tonight I went to a bar

I didn't want to get drunk

I wasn't invited by a friend

I wasn't lost either

I didn't choose that bar

I just felt so lonely I wanted to see people

to be with people but to be left alone

I stayed a long time in that bar

long enough to attract attention

so I went to the bathroom

long enough to be forgotten

I felt so lonely I wanted

to listen to all those people

who didn't seem to be as fine

as their laugh claimed to be

I wanted to sit down and hug them

but I also wanted to observe them

just look at them from a distance

to not get involved

because I was already sad enough

for a whole human being to drown

I went to that bar for

some form of closure

I went to the bar and I wrote

and I listened to music

but I didn't really write

and didn't really listen

I went to that bar

to meet the love of my life

who'd see through the notepad

and the earphones

who'd notice the sideway glances

who'd see through the subterfuge

of raising my eyes to the ceiling

to find inspiration, pen clicking on teeth

I had no choice but to go to that bar

to find out that she wasn't there

but I wanted to hear her voice so much

I don't know what it sounds like

but I'll recognise it in a flash of lightning

I went to a bar tonight

I wanted to be invited by a friend

I wanted to get drunk

I wanted it to be my favourite bar

and turn this endless night into a feast

packed with fun and peals of laughters

I went to that bar tonight

hoping I'd befriend someone nice

hoping they could show me

how to sing along,

who could teach me the lyrics

to that song we call life

I stayed long enough

I was the only one left

just to make sure

she wouldn't turn up anyway

her face flushed, her hair a mess,

muttering excuses I didn't care about

because she had finally come

I would just hug her

till they kicked us out

I realised I stayed in that bar

and I was invisible to everyone

and it made me lonelier than before

even though I wanted to be alone

because I wanted to be acknowledged

I wanted to have a friendly hand on my back

and one extended ahead of my unawkward body

to introduce me to other friends

This is why I went to that bar

because I am a walking petrified conundrum

a wrecking ball of awkwardness and of love

I'm so lonely I'm sure it shows

and perhaps people know

that it'll be different

as soon as she steps into the bar

and sees me for what I am

yet I sort of wish they felt

what I feel, though not in a bad way

I just want them to feel the pain

to palpate the sadness in my stomach

and prescribe a daily dose of friendship,

a shot of laughter, a pill of love

I went to a bar to ask my love

how her day at work went

and we'd laugh it all off

she'd stroke my cheek

I'd smile to her

and mouth I love you

and she'd mouth I love you too

and I'd tear up inside

with thousands of butterflies

beating their wings like mad

I know I could be as happy as I'm lonely right now

if she could just teleport in the bar

from wherever in the world she is right now

all these years of heartache wiped out in a second

even a fraction of a second

I'd turn into a well of joy and of love

and I'd never need to go back to that bar

unless I wanted to sit at that same spot

I sat to realise how far I've come.

 

Nightshift

3:21. 

am. 

Still wide awake.

Well, technically I did sleep,

for nigh on two hours. 

Nothing woke me up 

and that’s what’s worrying.

My heart beats with the night,

but my head spins a little.

Perhaps it’s a tumour which prevents

my brain from producing melatonin.

Or a blood vessel popped in my brain

and like the sun exploding

I’ll realise it in 8 minutes and change.

3. 2. 1.

Countdown to death.

Missing a zero, suspended,

cliffhanger to zilch.

Or perhaps I’m supposed

to read it backwards

so now it’s a countup

to the number of cancers I have.

Or will have and survive.

Or I should read 32 I am,

but that’s even more mysterious

than anything that’s ever happened to me. 

32 what?

3:59am.

Seriously, I need to sleep.

I have a presentation tomorrow,

which technically we are already. 

I took a pill for the migraine

but I think it’s a grade 4 glioblastoma.

Has to be. Hurts really bad.

At 4 sharp, it’s going to be

death o’clock for me.

Pft, gone, ready to be dissected,

every inch inside and out examined

so they finally find what’s wrong.

Cartography of a thousand and one ailments.

4:00am.

Doom downloading: 50%.

Life on pause because 

there is no broadband.

We have to taste that irony at least once.

Or perhaps I’m already dead.

No presentation, no work, no life.

Silver linings of sorts.

But tons of silverer linings:

no more wildguessing my illnesses,

no groceries to be done,

no fretting over what to cook for lunch,

no awkward social interactions.

The perks of being dead.

Also: let’s not forget the silence.

4:41am

Waiting three more minutes

because that’s oddly satisfying.

Brain overdrive though,

I might never fall asleep, ever again.

First case of its kind.

They’ll find I have a totally different brain

than anyone on this planet

and they’ll slice it up and conserve it in formol

for future generations to unravel the mystery.

I blame the tumour, it’s now out of control. 

I might even start seeing the tunnel

behind my closed eyelids

like this one time in that motel

when I think I didn’t sleep

but simply passed out from sheer exhaustion 

and right before I saw the light,

this bright beam of light, at the end of a tunnel.

If only I could see instead

the night at the end of the tunnel.

5:00am

I might as well get up

and power through that day

with tumblers of coffee

and a sign hanging from my neck

that says: “Dying from brain cancer,

please remove when dead.”

5:12am

Somebody take a hammer

and knock me asleep.

Migraine abated, I think,

even though there’s no way to be sure,

the bastard pops up again

the minute you let your guard down.

Sunlight filters through the blinds.

Birds are waking up too.

I am so not ready to start that day.

Brain, let me grab another hour of sleep, please,

and I’ll make sure you get a scan

as soon as we get home on Friday.

One more hour, just to have the impression

that I had two nights’ sleeps in one.

Just so this day which hasn’t really started yet

gets to be one hour shorter.

That I could live with.
 

Fragment #85

Eventually I'll forget the grain of his skin, the delicate bridge of his nose. Eventually.

Eventually, I'll stop thinking of him in another woman's arms, whispering words of love, fucking her, kissing her neck, burying his head in her hair.

The idea, now revolting to me, I'll eventually accept. It's not actual jealousy – it's more to do with my own happiness. I used to be happy with her because I loved and was loved. Her feelings wore out but the memories remain. Eventually, I will forget.

It's easier for him because he ran away with that other girl. That's because he doesn't want to have to forget. He deals with loss by adding more. He doesn't realise that one day there won't be anything left to add. That the running away has led to a cul de sac. No more fucking around. No more jumping from one relationship to the next.

The irony wills it that I realise she is not someone for me, that the differences between us are too great, but her eyes, her hands, her personality...eventually, I will forget all of these. I will have to forget how great a person she was, perhaps the greatest I've ever met. Will ever meet.

I don't know what I will forget first, but I know what will be forgotten last: how he made me feel special, how I mattered. He would listen, and respond with the clearest-cut words, those which touched my heart where no one had ever dared go, where I didn't think anyone would care to look. I realised too late he used his skill to read people to manipulate them.

She would chisel her words so they would pierce me through and through. She would feel every place she touched, she would measure pain with a knowing hand, she would carefully manipulate such raw feelings with ease, like a surgeon with a beating heart outside a patient's chest. It was as if she had always known me, that she had been waiting for me to heal me.

He made me want him, made me crave for more of us, for more magical moments. I know that eventually I'll wean him out of my system, but for now forgetting his face is the most fucking difficult thing I've ever tried doing.

What I'll never forget is how she helped me through such a hard time with grace, care and kindness. She truly was a fantastic person, though not one for me. How I envy the man who will get to build a home with her, graced by her presence...if such a one exists, if she ever allows herself to be touched, to be helped, to be happy. The last memory of her that I will have to shed, eventually, is her look of sadness and humility in the face of my sorrow, and the fullness of her hugs, whispering to me that I would be all right, eventually.

Perhaps, perhaps they were the saddest of us all.

 

If

If one day you feel the need to leave

know that you made us happy

more so than we'll ever be

If one day you feel the need to rage

know that we never meant you harm

that we'd trade our life for your calm

If you feel the need to mourn the dead

know that we're here for you

that sadness passes too

If one day you think you'd rather die

know that more people than you think

would pull you off from the brink

If one day you feel the need to leave again

know that you have a home in the soft

of the heart of those you loved

If one day you feel the need to speak up

know that your voice will boom like a storm

yet your words will help us keep warm

If one day you feel the need to love

If one day you feel the need to cry

If one day you feel the need to die

know that you are the most amazing person

we have been given to befriend, to love,

to laugh with, to walk with, to see smile

know that you have made us smile in turn

tear up and laugh, often at the same time

know that we're the lucky ones

that we'd give an arm to see you again

to hug you one last time in the chaos

and watch you go and blast the stars

or create a universe we'd see as a gift

to share with you, even from far away,

even a universe filled with ifs –

anything to stay with you one more day.