Me and my sister sleeping on our problem:

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July 8, 2024
Monday
It is evening and the streets are fresh swamps filled with murky water. Don't misinterpret me. I absolutely adore rains, but the kind that falls and feels like a blessing. Nonetheless, perhaps this was necessary for the kind of mad heat we've been dealing with. I tend to be positive that way.
I have just spotted a pair of baby red-vented bulbuls on my window grille. Wet and shivering in cold, they have found refuge under the eaves of my home. I do not disturb them and watch like a silent spectator. And I do nothing to help them because I am aware that the slightest movement will scare them away. And I want them to stay. I want them not to leave. Isn't it what souls like me do? We love from a distance, a little extra cautious to not overstep boundaries, letting them ease, watching them find their comfort and peace. This is what brings joy to our heart. This is how we live. This is how we love.
A humble aroma of soaked barks, soil, metal and human permeates the air. We admire the sky bleed a color we all know of but can't relate to. It is relentless, inconsolable today. What can I do now? I raise my palms up and begin to pray.

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The stars arrive like a mouthful of dreams on a dark night. Hungry, luminous, raving. I hang myself to dry out my fears and demons. These nights know me better than my mother who fed, washed, and cleaned me when I was a kid and on the days I fell sick. And that amounts to a significant portion of my pathetic life. It was she who told me how messed up my ambitions were. As per my mom, I was always searching for the wrong things in people—like kindness and perhaps compassion. In those moments, I made sure not to ever expect anything from anyone. I closed myself like a prayer between two sacred lips. What else could break my resolve one day but the same kindness and compassion I sought in people? How forgotten can one be only to be found and remembered by someone! Faith kisses the creeks between my toes. I'm wading through the sea of divinity and decadence. What is it that my ancestors hand me swaddled in supreme sternness? Isn't faith supposed to soften you? Take the rock in your chest and make it all muscle, then beat it and make it bleed for all the things you can't explain. Maybe I was searching for God in people, but what I had to do was find God within me.

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What would it be like to fly as humans? But there are laws that must be defied, miracles that need to be conjured. Water on the flower, flower on the water in a crystal glass. I see that observer and the observed soon become indistinguishable. The hours spin like lovely revolving doors, each panel gently placing you in front of the next. The key is to know when to step out of the mess. For it is all about being caught in the cycle of having the exit at your disposal, but not knowing when to take it. Squish your cheeks now, people love to find your face in a dilemma.
Talking about exits leads one to believe there was something that led them to the spot. Did someone put you there? Was it God? What do you know about God, have you seen Him, met Him, touched Him? Him, Her, Them, Their, The Holy Book. I don't want it, I want your answer. There is no specific answer, merely abstraction. An idea that floats like hope between you and your next moment on earth. And then there's the breath that moves inside you with such smoothness, and comes out with exactly the same ease. You hold it in, but no matter how hard you try, it escapes. You strive to explain, but do you really need to?

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I've learned to empty myself in the arms of the sky. It is the only place I feel boundless. Sometimes the stars are enough to talk to, on other occasions, the sky is a questioning void. 3.30 a.m. is the perfect time for such conversations. Have you ever chewed upon a raw leaf? Betel leaf? Murky, palate cleansing, teeth-staining. I bet you know of Beetlejuice. What if I were invisible to the world like Beetlejuice. Turbid, perfect, mad, insane, ghastly, ghostly.
A star twinkles orange-red, and then I lose eye-contact with it. Was it Betelgeuse? So maybe, I'm like this red supergiant Betelgeuse from the constellation of Orion. Though right now, it emits 7.5 times the energy emitted by the Sun, it just goes to show that it's nearing its end. For the unversed, red super giants are stars that are close to the end of their life. Well, aren't we all gearing toward the same? How does it feel like to have this immense potential and being unable to harness it? Or doing what you can in your power to burn bright in a particular spot without moving an inch? Everything turns my heart a little red—Betel, Beetlejuice, Betelgeuse.

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The strange wind wades through me and settles in tiny pockets, as if it has found a familiar universe within me. I don't ponder its presence. Something flutes its way to my core and prompts me to embrace this unfamiliar rhythm. The crayfish speak of their adventures at the benthic zone. I smile and sing along, allowing their song to wash over my voice. So many days have passed since I last gazed upon myself with tenderness. In fact, I've been carrying the ocean in my eyes and haven't felt shy to let go of it often.
I don't identify the sun as a vengeful God as ruefully described by some, perhaps because I've been wearing SPF. Wrapping myself in my black milk jacket, I stroll towards the shore, where the sea accepts all without judgment—even the shells, clams, and tiny barnacles that have wandered off course. My mouth is filled with sweetness as I breathe in the salty ocean air. When I open myself to the world, it punctures me. Yet, I continue like the desperate human who's never willing to give up on humanity. Tomorrow will be a good day. A crab innocuously nibbles on my little toe as I spit the words out. I think of you, but I'd hate to compare you to this harmless creature.

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pouring a glass of water,
letting it sit out
in front of each other,
and being quenched
without actually drinking it.

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Setting me free,
your arms
close around me.

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You would not wish upon stars if you understood the concept of breaking, falling and willingly succumbing to gravity.

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What does it take to become so accepting? The day I noticed something missing from myself, I learned to say backward the days of the week. And that's when I secured the label of being a delinquent, a deviation from the acceptable norms. They will tell you, they will make sure you memorize the horrors of your existence. Of how the neon signs shine under pretenses of being noticed, wicked sluts in the street at midnight. The compass seldom shows north. We girls began with exploration of the south—the evil transgressors, the maleficent ones, vixens with lips as full as their egos. Now watch the pearl of the teeth gone off, nails cut to imperfection, the beauty marks that shine like odd mushrooms on a dry patch of land. Where do we take it? How does it all end? They never tell, they never know. But before it does, they lift their rattles up into the air and pester you for all the wrongs you've done one last time. But let me tell you, we will sing out loud because this is the only hell we know of, and this is the only hell we have a chance to get out of.

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