woesofwiltedwisteria

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

I couldn't see myself ever having someone who would go through such a struggle of peeling pomegranate for me. But I love pomegranate. Maybe not all get to have someone like that. Maybe it's just me. After the tough task of peeling it off, I eat, tasting the fruit of my hard work.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

I made my father buy me a silver ring. It was a trend on those days. And as I never had a boy friend to gift me (I couldn't let the fam know though), I had to find it another way. It was fit in my index finger before. Then, at the alarming rate at which it grew out of my 2 fingers, it made me sad. I was afraid it would grow out of every finger. I couldn't wear it anymore. But it never grew out of my ring finger. It is still loose on my ring finger. And I lost the love for silver. Now it stays in my cupboard, collecting dust.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?

- The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

She was so me till she wasn't. How can I walk the same path as she did and expect a light at the end of the tunnel? When the darkness that lured her in is much more sensible and even promising. When I can see the “happy” future I promised in the mirror of someone else, it is lacking not a bit of my present and painting the same but with attributes of the certain future I dreamt of. Isn't it too much to ask for, to be certain of things I wish for in an uncertain future? But here SHE promises me a future. She mirrors me in my present, and it scares me that my future might be in that same mirror. So what about the promises I made?

It touched me in corners of my mind that I didn't expect it to. And I don't think it will leave those corridors of mind for a very long time. How can I forget her? How can I forget myself? How can I unsee My prophesied future I didn't expect to find, like in a crystal ball, which I happened to see, well, not voluntarily. But it is up to me. I won't walk into the future written for me. I will write my own future.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

Will it be a home even without having stories hidden in each nook and cranny? The story about how each stain came into life. The story of how each furniture found its new home. The story of each broken thing that was never replaced and whose hands broke it. And the people living under its roof watching the home getting old as they get older. Knowing that their home would never be as new as it was, like how they wouldn't be as young as they were. Trying to find their youth hidden under the fallen-out paint, the broken furniture, and among all the discarded things. Maybe it never was about the building. But always the people, the lives, and the stories. 

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

You are dead for me, so how can I not lament it? How can I not bring flowers to the grave of someone who was so dear to me? How can I stop coming back to that grave when my home is being buried down there? Even if you aren't down there, part of me resides there. Maybe I am lamenting the death of myself. The person I was when I was with you.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

When people run toward hope,

I am giving into despair.

Why do my tomorrows seem

Darker than my todays?

When people see brighter tomorrows,

All I can see is pitch darkness.

I don't want to go into

Those tomorrows.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

These wounded hands

Are making pretty things for you.

Don't worry about the blood stains

Since they are the embellishments.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

If i wanted to walk with you;

Why did i walk away from you?

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

I can only see you through my eyes.

And how I wish to see me through yours.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

It was her choice to bleed, but does it reduce the intensity of the pain? Not really. Blood gushes out through her wounds just like anybody's who doesn't want to bleed.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

It was always my nightmare unfolding. I am not actively making it real. Even there, I was escaping from the responsibility. Like how I did escape from drawing the future by making myself believe that it wasn't promised to me. It scared me to go on living in that future. But it scared me to actively stop doing so too. So I built up my own nightmare. But I am still here. And the future I was so scared of is already unfolding. Where is the nightmare I promised myself?

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

I try not to look at it. To avert my gaze from that direction. But how can I, when the night comes, not catch a glimpse of those lights faltering in the distance, which are kept hardly alive by memories? The hope that you might have come back, even if it was by mistake, makes sure that I indeed look at that abandoned home. 

The abandoned home of ours

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

You never looked for me to ensure my departure. But here you are blaming me for leaving, when in the first place, it doesn't matter to you whether I stay or leave. It was all the same, even when I was there and when I wasn't.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

We are wrapped up in things we like. The things we used to like hold so many memories. We were all the books, films, and songs we liked. There will be a part of you in all those you have liked. Parts of you that explain parts of your past self—the self that liked them. Your emotions and feelings are bottled up in those things, waiting to be rediscovered by your future self. 

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

When people try to stay in others' palaces of memories as long as they can, I leave without even leaving any footprints behind, as if I had never been there. 

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

I thought that regret was the byproduct of wrong decisions. Maybe I shouldn't have chosen what I did. Then I might be freed from this constant voice in my head, repeating over and over how different it would have been. Later, I got to know that regrets would linger as long as you let them stay in your mind. It is you who feed them. You can't let go of the other version of you that might have sprung out of those other decisions. Those versions that never got out of you but never left your mind's corridors. Then I realised that no matter what you choose, you regret it. So I have decided to live with it. Maybe I don't have to make them leave. They can be on the shelf of the other versions I never become. The versions that cost my current self to exist. I can let them exist without suffocating the one I became by their presence. I exist, and they exist as thoughts. Thoughts that no longer bleed or suffocate me. But thoughts of all the paths I could have walked upon. And reassuring I am the person I became because of all the choices I made. They might not be the best of all, but they moulded me to be who I am.

[woesofwiltedwisteria]

How can I mourn the death of someone who is still alive? I keep visiting your grave, which you are not in, with flowers in my hands. I should stop this ritual. So as to make peace with the death that never happened.