He had died. The message came. A very short call. No attempt by the voice on the other side of the line to layer his words with icing. Found with foam dried at the corner of his twisted mouth with his tongue sticking out. The entire colour drained from it like neglected flowers in a vase. His eyes shot an infinite blankness, dark as the stage on which the stars stood with an old syringe whose needle was tired and weary as a nomad’s feet keeping his stiff body company on the ground.
Tears. She had none. All dried up along with the words in her mouth. A retreating army eclipsed by the torrents of emotion invading her being. Reason, logic or understanding all as good as the sentences of a grey parrot. They were just celebrating last night with the excitement of a shook soda. He had gone 100 days sober.
Ask the snakes building castles of clouds with their words
Who taught them to carry hope on their tongues
And spit them with the graceful flight of bullets
Into the attentive trenches behind the milk of our eyes
And they will slither slowly in the sand
Patient maps like a seductive dance
That do no read like the sour salts in these lines
A map that will only become clear
After the rubble has fallen from the skies
To flatten the spirits that live on the ground
After our eyes have keeled with the blood of our pain
The snakes maps will resemble the ghosts that appear in mirrors
When you stand behind them
A ghost wearing a tired jacket like a cliché
It might have been annoying to some of you at that time but I didn’t really care. I just wanted to write, to the extent that I wasn’t so critical about what I wrote. As long as I got it out of my mind and in a coffin of words I could burry somewhere I was fine. Honestly, the thing I was most exited about was other people actually reading my shit.
Any time I saw the WordPress notification on my phone, either a like or a comment, I got high as the cow jumping over the money. It meant to me, in the most minute way, that I had communicate – exactly what I had set out to do.
Then with the falling of leaves, it all started to dry up and wither. The feelings became fish out of water. I got caught up in the likes and the view. I was more interested in being seen than being heard. I also branched out, which is a perfectly normal symptom of any artistic growth. I went swimming in oceans and lakes and I met all sort of fishes and creatures, saw all sorts of shores and drank all sorts of waters.
Now I don’t even know where my body has washed ashore. Writing is not what it used to be for me. And this is driving me insane, not because I don’t know but because I need it to be cathartic and it just doesn’t seem to be. It’s became obligatory to write which should be good but its also sucked out the serendipity in it.
This is not any promise or radical change. I haven’t written a post in one take for years. So in honor of those days when it was just me and my hunger and passion to write, satisfying just that – I want to communicate.
The broken clock hanging, alone
On my wall
Rivaling my heart, has
Forgotten its regular rhythm, of
Non stop dedication, looking
For the next tick, before
The last is forgotten.