Category Archives: { . . . }

“such is—” i am tempted to say, but i compose myself like a bad poem.

we wish we could talk about something else, but we can only talk about what we know. this is what we know: the way the pen glides on the paper, how the lines blur, and whether we should be worried; how certain words are filtered through our ears the way others aren’t; how we are so easily distracted by conversations that do not belong to us; how cold air feels to skin that is starved for warmth; how uncomfortable we are, but not unresolved.

we had to turn on the lights today because it was dark inside. we couldn’t see our arms, let alone our fingers and the tip of our nails. our souls faded through the walls before we could make sense of their shape, and as we walked through the rooms, we wondered how deep in we were, how far we had gone and whether we had missed the door. i stumbled upon the cat, black on black, and nearly toppled over. i poured a cloud of milk in my coffee, to no avail.

it was dark inside today, and we couldn’t separate our voices. the sounds echoed and leveled out in the spaces around us until we could no longer tell them apart. there was no light seeping through the cracks of the windows, no glint, no glimmer, no sun, no sky—just a cold haze engulfing shadows along the way. the air was heavy and heady with the thickness of a worn cloak, covering our mouths and our noses in a blend of smoke, coal, fog and moss.

it was dark inside today, that much we knew. we couldn’t tell our mouths from our feet. we struggled with the buttons on our shirts. we turned faucets with fingers we couldn’t see; we washed yesterday’s faces with eyes closed to the course. we dropped coins and keys and thimbles and corks under our skirts. we missed corners and ran into walls until we turned on the lights and it was not at all dark anymore.

i haven’t been gone since i left.

when you felt the distance of a thousand miles in a few steps. when you couldn’t feel further apart the moment you held hands. when you wished the sun would collapse around you. when you felt like a poor friend, a failed lover, a stranger in the dark. when you thought of the small things you could do, and the ones you wouldn’t try.

when i didn’t know if she was warm enough under the rain. when i couldn’t have the assurance of my hand on her arm. when i hoped she was sound asleep away from the noise. when i stood in fear of losing my words in the air between one land and another.

when, and how we survived.

i am waiting for the white to turn red. i watch it, i observe it, i pause and i come to it again. still, it is white, white as silk, virgin married. there is no benefit for the white to turn red, only the relief of my satisfaction. from the spindle to the thread, i unknot the tangles. i spot the red with an optical ruse; i stared at a turquoise drop for too long.

***

you wake up early so you can find a lab where you can stretch out your left arm and make a fist with your hand and dig your pointy nails into your palm. you meet with the needle that draws your blood, only you do not look at it. you feel strange leaving a part of yourself within these walls, and you wonder what will be found in that small vial of you. grief? turbulence? and what will they make of you after they are done probing, examining, mixing, calculating—is there a collective jar where blood samples go to rest? do they merge and become one or do they coalesce like strangers on a crowded bus forced into awkward intimacy?

blood red, cardinal red, deep red in the dark—we are interchangeable.

my blood is in your hands, white as silk, incorruptible.

the pain takes my breath away and carries it to where it can roam freely, without the swollen joints, without the failing hearts.

i have no regrets, but i am always prepared to extricate myself from the knots of the world.

she appeared in a gust of wind, scanning the room and sitting down in a mess of fabric. the tables were small, cigarette smoke blew in from the people sitting outside, and unmemorable french songs whirled around us. she did not look at the waiter when the waiter greeted her, and she requested a menu even though there were none. when he returned with her coffee, she criticized the cup. when he brought her water, she turned it down.

the air at the back of her throat vacillated and was never sure, you see. it was an uncertain air, twisting around the tonsils, several degrees cooler than the ambient air, cooler than the outside air, as though the skin at the back of her throat had its own tendrils shifting her breath around. this is how she remained in a state of unrest: with her voice cold to the world, her screams frozen midway out, her icy tone chilling the people around her.

i wanted to apologise to every person who ever had to speak to her or had to watch her talk.

i wondered if in isolation she kept the same airs, or if she put her chin down with a sigh.

i wondered, and then i looked away.

my feet are my arms, and they ache and are heavy with sleep. from the top of the mountain to the city below, i could close my eyes forever.

we made our way down through the ruins of an ottoman castle. rocks rolled below us. we fell upon a fountain laden with rose petals, red and beautiful and out of place among the wild flowers. we saw chickens in the bushes, and among the chickens a rooster. a young man sat alone at the edge of a cliff, staring into the distance between his arms and his feet.

in the morning we walked by the shoreline. stray dogs followed us for several meters then were distracted. the waves were soft and graceful on the bank, the sand subdued and reset with every pull. the sun washed out the sea, the coast, the pebbles and the moss. even the sky lost its blue by the glare of the light. the day felt long with so many days between the hours.  i tried to look underneath the pools of water for something i might have missed: a crab, a key, crystals—but there was nothing. no crows, no gulls, no seashells. just the sun reflecting, hiding gems and treasures in plain sight.

in the days within the day, there were hours for each day, and hours for each hour. today we return to where we were yesterday; we extend the hours with our eyes closed between the city and the mountain. at this time of the year it is easy to find comfort in these deserted junctures.

in crowds, in voids, in long or short streets, in spaces narrow, wide, grey, in their city, in my city, in the morning, at night, when i go, when i come back, sometimes i want to stretch my arms and fly—well you can’t fly human master, no you can’t fly, you can’t fly by yourself—and sometimes i almost do, i almost fly, and sometimes i would rather glide like a fish, swim in the air and cut the wind in two.

in this room in which all our breaths merge without a choice,
i pick one silence over the other.

every time the child next door cried, neighbours collectively held their breath and rested their hands against their hearts. the child had the most genuine cry; it carried the world’s biggest tragedies in a single burst. neighbours wanted to run to the door and take the child in their arms until her tears were no more.

it never seemed to matter why or when the child cried, for as long as she cried, a caregiver soothed her. “don’t worry about the water,” she might have said, or “it’s okay if you stubbed your toe”.

the caregiver’s voice was kind and forgiving. she would console her and never hesitate in her sympathy. nothing was ever a cause for concern since the cries did not waver in their purpose. the child was confused: something had happened to her, and she needed assistance. why was there water in her eyes? why did the table collide with her toe? these were important questions, and she could not answer them. she found solace in the exchange of cries for comfort, even if she would soon learn that some questions would never be answered, and it would be pointless to carry the weight of the world in her tears.