(old)

I have not posted anything for a while so I dug this up from my old drafts and tweaked it:

Things have changed for her; she bites her tongue everytime she senses the tears rising, like the rapid waves that hit the shore with such great force. With strenuous effort, she takes deep breathes in and tilts her head up—working with gravity to keep them in. The walls are only blurry for a moment and then, everything that had rose in fury within her dies. Swallowing every fear she had felt, she licks her lips and speaks with a crackle in her voice. No longer does she let them slide down her soft skin; the strange tingle in her throat and eyes do not exist anymore.

coincidences.

I was sitting in the back seat of the car. The sky had cleared up, the day had calmed but my mind was still churning. Conversation was taking place but all I heard were the murmurs. Things were passing by as we kept driving but then I saw him. Him, on his bike; him with his straw fedora hat and worn and torn jeans; him and his loose violet t-shirt. Serenity, peace filled my mind and I felt that freedom he felt while riding his bike. Silence ensued and I did not understand anything but I accepted everything. Though I was moving forward with great speed, in those five seconds I saw him, everything fell away. I was suddenly forced with the only few memories I had of him. That feeling of mystery, ecstasy, curiosity all came flooding back and I smiled. In that instant, I knew.

up again.

It was in that moment when I walked out of the building, exhausted but triumphant. Limbs were heavy, feet sore but recollecting all those conversations made me feel lighter then I had felt in the past week.
It was not the caffeine in the cup that I held in my hand, nor was it the four men who sat in the corner carrying casual conversations amongst themselves. It could not have been the personal but light exchange of words between me and him. No, it was none of that.

It was everything and I felt fucking great.

Sometimes I wonder why we get the cards life has dealt us.

from start to finish

The evening starts with the switch of the television. You are all sitting together with dinner bowls in hand and eyes are glued to the screen as conversation ensues with the happenings of the program. You know the perfect time to begin to clear the small table. You carefully handle the porcelain bowls and plates, stacking them neatly in the sink; bigger bowls encase the smaller bowls, utensils go in the cup and everything is filled with water to make sure the food does not stick to the dishes.

Your mum is sick and hasn’t done the dishes in over three years, your father is in pain, fighting the temptation to itch at the red, swollen hands—he looks terrible. Your sister is too young to wash the dishes. But that is okay. You do not mind washing a few dishes, a pot and a few other miscellaneous items. You are responsible. He walks back upstairs without a word, your sister has gone out to play with the neighbourhood kids and you are left to keep your mum company. You guys watch an episode of Oprah together, laughing at Tom Hanks’ comments and Julia Robert has never looked so stunning. The audience is lively and you forget about the dishes. Your father comes down, drowsy but alright. You guys watch Shark Tank and converse about the offers the ‘sharks’ are making to each entrepreneur; some are ridiculous and you all cannot believe the offer Mark Cuban made to one of them—it is ruthless. You delay washing the dirty dishes. What Would You Do? is on next and mum is asking about the dishes. You tell her you will wash them after the show. She sighs and shifts her focus back to the television. Your sister is back by now and all four of you are sprawled on the couches, watching in silence. Soon, a miniscule argument breaks out between your sister and your mum. Your father, still drowsy from his new medication, gets fed up and leaves grumpily. His footsteps echo loudly throughout the house. The fighting comes to a halt.

The rest of the night is up to you; when the minute hand strikes twelve, you order your sister to prepare for bed as you wheel your mum to the stair-lift. You realize you have to wash her thermo cup and add some hot water: she needs water to swallow her sleeping pills. You get her up to the bathroom and prepare everything she needs to brush her teeth. As you leave her to wash up, you run downstairs to pour out the urine from her commode toilet chair. You run upstairs again and into your parents’ bedroom to pour out the urine from her bedroom commode toilet chair. Rinsing it clean, you run back downstairs and quickly lock the screen door, chain the front door and set the alarm. You run back upstairs.

She is waiting on you to help her walk to the toilet. You wait. You help her walk back to the sink to wash her hands and help her over to the walker. You try to be quiet as you wheel her to her bedroom. Your father is lying in bed, half asleep. You assist her into bed, hand her her medication. You utter a rushed “goodnight” as you go back downstairs. Those dirty dishes are waiting.

The house is dead quiet. You roll up your sleeves and begin to soak your dry and chapped hands. As you rinse the suds off the dishes, a tear falls. Then another. They hit the sink and wash away with the dirt and the suds. Finally, everything is clean and you wipe her hands (and eyes) dry. You give the kitchen one last inspection before turning off the light. You quietly walk up the stairs and peek into your sister’s room—a regular check-up routine. You get yourself ready for bed and finally, with the closing of your own bedroom door, the night ends.

they only burn when you touch them.

I caved and went back to old habits.
They burn; reminding me of life and its precious value.
What am I even doing to myself?

I can't go back and walk the same road twice.
Not this time.

showcase

This dull pain has spread thoroughly within my chest; encasing my organs, swallowing them whole with its relentless mouth. Like the sound of fingernails on a blackboard, the feeling is torturous; loud and piercing, lasting long after it has ceased.

I cannot begin to describe the surreal amount of emotions I have felt in the past four years. Each one is distinct in its own way—as clear as the plucking of each individual guitar string. And they continue to play their notes, making a symphony of life; it hurts to hear but it’s all I can listen to because it is the most comforting and familiar noise I know of.

Tears are produced occasionally.
No, not a waterfall but the slow and steady flow of a cool and refreshing stream. They form when the environment is so cold and the only warmth comes from within. It is the slow rumble of emotions churning and melting into one another; it is the confusion and anger lost within the despair and disappointment. The motion produces heat and gives rise to incredible amount of heat. And the contrast between hot and cold presents a feeling of unimaginable exhaustion. It leaves you gasping for air and you can’t open up your airway long enough in fear of losing the only warmth left.

Then the devil speaks.

He tempts you with physical pain, relocating the unexplainable pain to one in which you can locate easily. He tempts you with a reason; an excuse to use if you were ever questioned: because a plausible answer is better than one that cannot be uttered. He blinds you with vulnerability and persuades you through the lack of a better reason.

The devil always speaks.

words lose meaning after a while.

I kept it safe for a year. Not a single dog-earred corner and a wrinkle wasn’t to be found because I secretly hoped that you would come back soon enough and make each and every word on that piece of paper true again. But I was wrong and today, I sat down and pulled it out from underneath all the junk I have accumulated over the years.

The note is just as white as it was when I first found it in my purse. The stickers you put on it was still shiny and new. But the meaning of the words you handwrote are old; the blue ink stood out like it was written yesterday but the words that had once made my heart skip a beat has died. They don’t do anything to me besides resent you. So I took a deep breath and calmly ripped it up into eight pieces.

This is goodbye to who we were.

Pockets are underestimated.

Pockets: they are so much more than just the details on our clothes. Pockets are personal—they represent a part of our identity. Pockets have the ability to tell stories and they are great at keeping secrets. Pockets are more than just a private space as they can easily become part of the public space as well; you can take things out of them and show your belongings to others. But more than not, we take advantage of them, shoving them with scraps and garbage. We forget that we carry them with us no matter where we go. Our pockets have the capability of showcasing who we are. They come in different sizes; they are made out of different materials, they come in different colours and they have different depths to them.

I remember your pocket.

It was black and had the perfect depth. It was soft and worn from the usage of them. It contained small bits of who you are: a lighter, a small donation card from the deaf, a piece of folded up paper, a receipt. In other words, you are a smoker, a giver, a writer and you are responsible. I listened to your pocket that evening. I listened very well as it told me the story of a day in the life of you. I reached in the first time and you didn’t even hesitate or move away. You gave me access to a personal part of you.

Pockets are underestimated.

She finds peace within the chaos.

It has been a while since she has found herself surrounded by the hazy smoke. She slowly brings it to her lips and inhales deeply. She feels the warmth of the smoke within her moist mouth and slowly exhales, making the steady trail of smoke dance towards the low, off-white ceiling. She has lost track of time as she sits on the leather couch; it sticks to her bare legs as she moves around, readjusting the position of her legs. It creaks loudly but she doesn’t notice the sound. Instead, she is enchanted by the low rumbling voice of Louis Armstrong laced with the sultry voice of Ella. She closes her eyes and gently sways her body as she quietly sings with them: 
Under a blanket of blue,
Let me be thrilled by all your charms.
Darling, I know my heart will dance
Within your arms.
Opening her eyes, the room suddenly seems so much smaller. She can hear the sound of her own breathing echo within the room. The walls glow and the room feels too warm. She sinks lower into the couch and allows herself to be carried away. She curls up in the corner of the couch into the fetus position and begins to weep. She lets out small, quiet sobs; her breaths are rapid and short, following a stream of tears down her face. Still in her hand, she takes one last drag before tossing into the cigarette tray and rolls onto her back. Staring at the ceiling, she recalls their argument last night. She only remembers the numerous times they told each other to fuck off; the yelling and the anger that filled the room was insurmountable.

She gets up and quickly runs into the kitchen, the tile floor sending chills up her spine. She scrambles for a wine glass and opens up a bottle of Shiraz, pouring right up to the rim. She takes a big sip and slowly walks back to the living room. She walks over to an empty wall and slides her back down towards the floor; sitting in the corner, she watches the front door. The floor is cold and sends goose bumps along her legs. Louis and Ella have stopped singing; the only sound playing is from the humming of the fan. She looks down at her crooked knees and begins to count the number of small scars on them. She sighs and walks over to grab her small purse on the floor beside the couch. She sits cross-legged on the floor and pulls out a small tin box. She carefully opens it and takes a deep breath in. She measures the precise amount and carefully rolls another. Taking it to her mouth, she gently licks the end and seals it.
Perfection.
She fumbles her box of matches and quickly lights it. Taking her glass in hand, she takes another large sip before bringing her masterpiece to her lips.