Purge

In the beginning, there were bells and violins; the smouldering coals of passion and lust, increasingly frequently occluded by the the clouds of potential romance. In the end, there was the delicious saltiness of purging tears. Pain made her clean again.

Emotional Haiku

Less dead,
I try to feel
Inside.

Conversation

I can not
Express
How important it is
To speak
And
To listen.

Fin

I think what you did was right.
Ripped off the band-aid,
Demolished my castle in the air,
With a blunt wrecking ball.

The pain feels surreal this time,
Not sharp,
Not burning,
No tears in my eyes,
Although they threaten to encroach upon my plastered smile.
Just a numbness.

My arms feel weak.
My legs, heavy.
My brain, buzzing with static.
And my soul,
Weighed down.

Sure, I will bounce back!
This is after all, my story,
My feelings, my words.
My world, where I am allowed to be selfish,
Callous,
Self-centered,
Self-absorbed,
And filled with deep self-loathing.

Thank you though,
For reminding me what it feels like,
To want someone,
To want more than their body,
To want their being,
To want their soul,
To want their laughter,
And their soft touch

Thank you for reminding me,
That I still have a beating heart,
Beneath all those layers
Of put-on cynicism,
Scar tissue of years gone by,
The shell of fear
And the vehement opposition to change.

Thank you for your honesty,
Your sweet innocence,
And the time we had.
And despite the bitterness of my tired soul,
I wish you nothing but happiness.

Farewell, my love!

Ode to the uncertainty of love

I think I am falling in love with you,

And I guess that’s okay.

Slowly and steadily!

I tell myself, "Be cool;

Be strong, be brave and be detached!"

And then I can taste your lips on mine;

The way you eagerly explore my mouth,

The way you bite my lower lip,

The exhilaration in the pain;

And I feel myself fall,

Slowly, watching the blue sky open up over me,

Bathed in the rays of the bursting dawn,

As I fall through pearly white, cottony clouds

And float towards the world.

I think I really like you,

I don't want to, but I guess that’s okay.

I wait for you to text me,

And I worry when you don’t,

Fretting and huffing and puffing,

Wowing to hate you,

And to forget you,

To erase your very existence,

From the landscape of my mind.

And then you say hi,

And I can see your smile,

Warm and guileless,

Innocent like a day old child,

And the dimples that crease your cheeks,

And the way your eyes light up,

And I have already forgiven you

I think I want you,

It's hard to admit but it's okay.

I want to be hard as nails,

Defensive, like I have taught myself to be,

Immune to emotions and pain,

Apathetic and indifferent.

Cold when couples come together at the lips,

And join themselves at their souls.

Cold, as cold as New York on a January morning.

And then I remember the touch of your fingers,

The way they linger,

On the naked skin of my back,

Your lips on my neck,

Setting me on fire,

Your kindness and your urgency,

Your patience and your passion,

The way you said my name,

The way you held my hand,

The way you chained me to your bed, by your side

The weight of your body on mine,

And the comfort of your arms around me,

And the walls of ice I built,

Melt away.

I think I want us to be together,

It’s a long shot, but wishing it, is okay!

I know we live on two ends of this island,

Seems like two ends of the world on gray days and textless hours.

It will be hard,

It might be excruciating,

What with me and my baggage

And you and your past.

But mostly me and my baggage.

But when I think of holding hands,

Walking through the fall leaves in Central Park,

Arms entwined,

Kissing on the terrace of the MET,

Walking through the West village,

Sharing a hot chocolate at Serendipity

Or in my apartment,

Curling up in your soft blanket,

Watching Netflix on your laptop, naked,

It seems worth it.

I don’t know if we are meant to be,

If this is really a thing,

Or just a flash in the pan,

A one night stand,

A blip on my stream of random "romantic" rendezvous!

I don't know if we are going to grow old together,

Live in a ramshackle apartment together,

Or even go out on a date together,

But then I think of you,

And not knowing seems okay.

Taking a chance seems okay.

Deciding to trust seems okay.

Who knows?

Maybe we will be okay!

Night by the ocean

I like where we are,
Under the jasmine tree,
With the smell of the ocean,
Mingling with the sweet scent of the white blossoms.

I am nestled in your arms,
Your warm breath on my neck,
Your fingers playing,
With my hair and the thin cords of my white dress.

Gentle are your kisses
And your words are music.
Lost in the scent of jasmine
And the ocean and my night black hair, we linger,

In the silver moonlight,
Until the first rays of the sun.

The unbearable lightness of normalcy

Lana del Rey has released a new song. I am delighted! It is vintage Lana, with her soft crooning, infused with the sultry richness of her voice that just seems to ooze honey and sex but also with strong tones of crushing sorrow and loneliness. She is my favorite alter ego.

She also reminds me strongly of what I am not.

Living in Ithaca, every waking day can be rich literary fodder. From the merciless nights in February, when the world seems deceptively warm as streetlights bounce of the drifts of white snow, despite being as cold as death, to the summer, stifling humidity followed by rain, grey skies, winds whistling through the leaves, chilling to the bone. It is quiet. Silence is often broken only by the rustling of leaves or the gushing of waterfalls that cut through the gorges. Like my trip to Istanbul, I was sure that the words would well up in my mind, in my eyes, and fall off my tongue. Silvertongue, they would call me. Just like Istanbul, I was sorely disappointed. Where I was sure that this was going to be a period of literary fecundity, I was left staring, a year later, at a torrent of clear, cool water that poured from the skies, shivering in the middle of July, waiting for the words to come, waiting for my moments of genius; for that life-affirming spark that would rage into a passionate fire, that would make me capable of painting pictures with words for the rest of my life.

Sometimes, I wonder if the desire to become a writer stemmed from a deeper insecurity within me, fueled by low self esteem. In my younger days, I would write verses, short and long, on very similar themes- loss, loneliness, death, decay, the utter pointlessness of existence! It was indeed quite enjoyable to entertain the notion that these verses would someday amount to something, even a Pulitzer Prize. I wonder if that was a salve for the pain that arose from the anger of not being a genius or an innovator. Perhaps, it was something to aspire for, when I had no clear direction of where I was going or what I wanted from life. It is easier to get through the mundanity of each day, when one believes that there is an ultimate goal, an ultimate destination to a very repetitive journey. But what if life is, like science predicts and the nihilists assert, inherently pointless? A cosmic accident, an insignificant existence in a sea of galaxies, suns, dying stars, in an ever-expanding random universe!

Sometimes I feel that my literary shortcomings stem from how normal my life is. Surely, in order to write something powerful, the author must have a series of experiences that range from tense excitement to inconsolable grief. All award winning novels are products of profound life experiences- wars, death, interment, personal tragedies. I wonder if my disability to produce good literature stems from the normalcy and relative comfort of my life. Simply put, I have nothing to write about.

The insidiousness of normalcy recently manifested in my life, as a recent crib fest where I proclaimed that I wish I had acknowledged and come to terms with my eventual reality, four years earlier: that instead of wanting to be a rebel, an angel of excess and decadence, I wish I had accepted that graduate studies in the States, a job with computers, a husband from my own community, a house with a white picket fence, nerdy kids and dogs would be my ultimately reality! I would have prepared myself for this. I should have spent more time learning to code than dream of the day I would become an iconic, female Hank Moody. My upper middle class past would become my upper middle class present and future!

Alas, now it is too late, as things mostly are for people who dwell on their pasts. As the years inch by and I see ten grey hair in place of one, I wonder where all this is headed. I wonder if I should strive to make my new dream come true- to wake up at 7:00AM sharp tomorrow with a smile on my face, apply to three jobs, start my online machine learning course, read about Java and Python, go the gym, eat healthy, watch an episode of Seinfeld and go to sleep. Or should I continue being who I am: a self-hating yet narcissistic, insecure girl in a state of flux, with an aspiration to be an extraordinary writer and a vehicle for change on one hand, and trying to face reality on the other. Will I eventually accept that being normal, and hence unremarkable, is my reality? And even if I do, is it really so bad after all?