rule-ofthree-blog

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The gossiper and gossipee

Words and letters hang in the air like mayflies during mating season. Eager, curious and anticipating. None of them aware of the future, just preoccupied with the present. I don’t blame them, after all they live to give life to another. Do they hold any weight in this vast world? Maybe, to the curious. Or to the ash-blacken hearts of broken glass and rusty barb wires, maybe.

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Breathe

Breathe

 Breathe in

Here she lies

Her empty eyes fixated on something faraway

An amalgamation of everything she was

All her hopes, all her desires

All her fears

Lay bare in front of us

Her laughter echo gently in the dark caverns of our memory

Everything she was, everything she could be

Fading with her withering vessel

Breathe out

 Breathe in

Family all around

Finally for one last time

Each grappling to touch a portion of her skin

To provide a comfort she could not feel

Prayers spewing from quivering lips

Eyes rapidly blink back the memories

Throats convulse, swallowing

The words

The pain

The tears

Breath out

 Breathe in

You stare helplessly as her breath becomes shallow

You stare at her gaping mouth

Widening painfully with every inhalation

There’s nothing for you to do but stare on.

 Breathe out

Observing the quivering rise and fall of the chest

Your heart in your throat, your eyes burning

You hold your breath

Between each inhalation and exhalation

Knowing

Each

Breath

Out

Could

Be

The

 Last

 Breathe in

 The nurses close the curtains

Signaling the impending end

It becomes an omen

A statement

The reality of the situation hits you

It hits you hard

The dimming of the lights

The claustrophobia

The privacy

An unarguable definite truth

You feel sick to the stomach

Nothing would please you better than to rip the curtains apart

Tear them to shreds

Disrupt the rite

Deny it

Reject this reality

But, you do not move

All you could to do is

Stand there And stare

 The stone surface begins to crack

Water starts to permeate

The men of our house lose all self control

They break down in front of us

Everyone cry out to deaf ears

She does not stir

 Suddenly

Her eyes flicker!

She entire frame shudders

Her fingers twitch

Breathe out

Her jaw stops moving

She stops

Stillness

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Learn to tell the time

Mama would always chide me when I glance up at analog clocks of all types and sorts, pinned up the walls; pausing for a moment before proceeding to ask that same question. Truth be told, I hate the clock and all of Time— half past twelve, two-thirty, six twenty-five and on it goes. Not purely because of Time’s arrogance. Not because she stalks past everyone without a bat of her eyelid, or when she doesn’t turn her head slightly at any intriguing sound. Although (i’d admit), sometimes she is lenient, walking a little slower past the waltzing of two lovers’ souls (letting them taste the luxury of time //euphoric and sighing in contentment). As I grew older, perhaps the one thing I learnt from Time herself is that only time will tell (for most things), untouchable by the human hand. I hate it, feeling all insignificant, letting time manipulate my every cell to surrender to her. Open wounds and some trickling bloody, I lay bare. Vulnerable at her feet. I would imagine her mouthing, I told you so (how cocky of her) while I breathe in all of my doing.

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museums and art; loved being all touristy isn’t it a silly, silly thing: art transcends all time and boundaries and yet are merely speeches we fold and form, mould and painstakingly force them into soft caresses of music and the lovely gentle colors; in hopes they would gain better entry that way.

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Contact

“When two objects collide, there is always damage of a collateral nature.”

Conversation. An exchange. Attention.

I used to welcome attention. In fact, I craved it. I loved talking with people; getting to know their stories, and sharing a bit of my own. The connection forged by a few meagre words, regardless in forms of text or sounds. Having a voice, an opinion… gave me a sense of security. It gave me purpose. Talking was the only thing that made me feel alive… If you think about it, our existence is only really established through the recognition we receive from those around us. I guess that’s why I wanted their attention; their justification.

That was why I wanted others to know how I was feeling.

That was why I needed others to hear me scream.

But

In order for others to hear me, I needed to learn how to listen too. It was an exchange; a two-way process.

I got tired of with all the noise that others brought with them. 

The collision of thoughts and perspectives began distorting my individuality. The obsessive need to fit in led to a reckless assimilation of ideas and noise. I began jeopardizing my identity. I

I started to wonder why I needed others to justify my own existence. Why was it necessary to measure my self-worth through the cracked lenses of others? Why do I need to sacrifice my identity for their fleeting, pointless and insubstantial acceptance? 

I do not need your sympathy or pity.

I do not need your opinions.

My feelings are mine and mine alone. Why should I let others dictate how I should react or feel?

I am my own person.

I lowered my shields and exposed myself to the full blast of their noise; an overexposure which had left me both numb and deaf.

I started isolating myself.

I started to despise contact.

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Superficial; adj/

Unsubstantial, fake. Shallow, lacking perspectives. Naive, fragile. Just like the rust on iron, I guess initially one would momentarily be captured by the oddly satisfying reaction—the display of mahogamy, tan and crimson mix. Yet, the lack of purpose/waste of good iron objects would cause one to turn away in disgust. Maybe this is reflective in human interactions, we are all drawn to people mannequins/walking perfections; only to turn away upon knowledge that they were really just broken glass and sharp edges. (Perhaps, its nature’s way of taunting us/ironic how we turn away from things that are so similar to our entity) We fail to see that the selectively permeable membrane surrounding our being should not define our true potentials. Despite it all, I crave for the same kind of perfection that I despise others for. And even then, I still desire more.

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I heard that ink to the skin would shorten your lifespan; but I think having (love)d you shortened mine more. (funny how we take things for granted, especially something so transient like love/ traces of you still present, stuck on me like a second skin.)

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hold your breath

I feel like I’m underwater all the time. Pinched nose and cheeks filled, hold your breath. Hold your breath, when you walk past strangers, hoping that you’ll catch a glimpse of that face in the crowd. Hold you breath; clenched fists and that slight flush when he leans forward, catching you off guard. Hold your breath, when anger strikes you like a bolt of thunder and when truth unravels before you.Tell yourself that it gets better (it will get better) and

hold your breath, when you decide that it’s all over placing memories and old photographs into drawers and secret compartments at the back of you head; willing for them to be out of sight (for now). It gets better (it will get better), so let go and be brave.

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Not Just Fear

I can feel it, you know? The fear. Only that it isn’t just fear. It’s everything.

And like everything, it starts from the heart. It starts from within, it starts from the center – Branching out through all the different veins. I feel it. I feel it.

Its the small twitch of a finger, the tiny hint of doubt. The haunting that maybe everything wasn’t even the slightest bit

Of enough.

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I love you

Say it after. After all has been proven.

Say it then. Then everything before was real.

Say it well. Well enough to understand just how much they matter.

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Superstition(?)

I would never come across as one who is religiously superstitious, but sometimes I can’t help but wish I am. Having the blind loyalty that someone bigger would be keeping me safe, someone to blame when I make mistakes or even having the knowledge that past, present and future events are meant to for me to be complete— a sculpture with planning beforehand, or lack thereof (based on one’s perspective). Palm readings and tea leaves in vintage porcelain, do I really want them to be the determinants of my life? Surely, if they predict my life to be just merely dusty rubble or cornerstones on the sidewalk, wouldn’t I spontaneously take action? Would such predictions hold true? What happened to us being masters of our own fate, free for creative doing? Maybe we aren’t meant to be five year olds with black crayons and coloring books, or the careless scissors to colored paper; for we are free-hand and impulsive.

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And just like that; every valuable lesson you've taught me goes down the drain.

I no longer believe in ‘family’. 

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All I've got is a bunch of sad stories.

Broods

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I always wondered why I was this quiet. Now I know that all I was really doing was saving all my words for you.

Reasons for my demeanour

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She Would Know

She would know. She would know what it feels like to be Helpless and powerful at the same time. She would pry open every contradiction, Learn every misfortune, And feel the futility of everything in this world. Yet, she would see the beauty of the autumn leaves, See the extra in all things ordinary, And feel the passion in every human heart. She would be humbled. So very humbled by the living and the dying.

You would think she was quiet and distant But she would know that everything just happens And she is helpless and powerful in every single moment. She would just know that everything had its meaning and time.

And you can see it. You can see that she knows. There is no proper adjective. Every one of them has this look. No matter how hard they try to hide, They would know. She would know.

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I think I am in constant fear of the life that I may have made for myself.

Reasons for my demeanour.

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I will not be your sometimes

or your occasional, or your rarely. I rather be none at all.