Skip to main content

Slipping Through My Fingers.

It’s only been a year and a few months since I left school, yet it feels like an entire lifetime has passed. Geographically, I'm far away, but even more so, the version of me that I built under those glaring white lights seems distant, almost unreachable. I try to recall it, but nothing comes with the warmth of nostalgia.

I can still faintly feel the hard work etched into my bones, the familiarity of that one song that played on repeat at every event, and the faces that simply represent memories of both laughter and sorrow. Things that once fit together perfectly, things I thought would last forever. But they have broken apart, like everything else eventually does.

I once believed I had found something special, but it too seemed to shatter like the rest. Yet, even in the fragments, there are pieces I treasure to this day. I hold onto them, trying to piece it all back together, even when it feels impossible.

I let myself slack off for a few days, letting the fatigue wash over me. She says she feels it too, that she understands. It’s easier when you don't care as much, but maybe she does care. I find myself making excuses for this affection, trying to make sense of it.

Am I just an outlet? Is she just an outlet? I don’t know. Does distance really make the heart grow fonder, or does it make us forget? Are we just echoes of the past, someone to hold onto to avoid forgetting? 

Not a friend, but a living memory. A place to return to when everything feels too new, when life is happening too fast, and nothing is certain. The comfort lies in the pain we shared. It’s still pain, but it’s shared pain.

Time feels like it’s slipping away unnoticed. It’s only when I see the faces of those who knew me then that I realize how much has changed. They tell me that the harder I try to hold onto it, the faster it will slip away—like the desert sand we grew up with. But I can’t help but grasp harder because, in the end, it’s all I have left.

They question me, asking who I am to this land. I don’t have an answer, but I know the land knows me. It has seen me. Shouldn’t that count for something?

The land, wherever it may be, isn’t ours. We belong to it, everywhere and anywhere.

I feel guilty for questioning this love when I have it. For dissecting its origins while I still feel its sweetness. But then she texts me, and suddenly, I’m filled with hope and warmth, the goodness of humanity. I only believe in it when I see it. But is that belief?

Isn’t that knowing? Knowing I am loved rather than believing in it. It feels cruel to question love when you should just feel it, believe in it, and let yourself fall. 

Maybe then, you won’t feel the bone crush. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Varuthaayi.

"വരാം," ഞാൻ പറയുമ്പോൾ, "പോകാം" എന്ന് പറയാനുള്ള ആ പേടി. My legs prickle like the seeds of a strawberry, and I feel like tearing myself apart today. I keep picking at the wound that heals every two days, only for it to break open again—blood and flesh. I feel trapped in my own skin, my body will never be what I want it to be. There are things I’m supposed to become, but time is slipping away. I applied for many things. I have sent my name into the void—eight, ten, how many more? They have to call me today. If not, I won’t be who I need to be. Tomorrow, I’ll be hopeless again. I can’t hold on to who I am, so how will time hold on to me? I eat the yellow as if it might bring some joy. One piece is thin and crispy, the bite sounds, and I feel it. The next is thick and bland—someone like me must have cut it. One is unexpectedly sweet, even though it isn’t brown like I expected. How it lies to me. I look in the mirror, I look away. Another is too salty. I eat 250 grams of ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.
Post a Comment
Read more

The Old Vase.

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us.  Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by. The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds.  Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves?  We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once.  I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created.  Maybe then, t...
Post a Comment
Read more