Tag Archives: pain

“& she lay amidst ruins, in ruins”.

Nothing hurt her; neither the stones so callously strewn across her path, nor the sharp grass blades, the shards of glass or the heavy rain drops. She did not squint even as the dust that was violently swept by the wind hit her eyes. The grass she walked on parted into a trail, as if each blade was sure she would walk back the same way. The wind blew her curly hair & the rain drenched it further. Her semi-transparent t-shit clung to her curves exposing her frail, balmy yet symmetrical body structure.
Clouds of opposite electric charges clamoured against each other, the heavens tearing apart with a brilliant streak of light. Thunder resonated in her heart. She walked on.
Stray drops of rain trickled down her neck, her collar bone glistening. The darkness felt familiar. It threatened to rip her soul apart and consume every pore, dissolve every broken fragment & she let it because she’d rather be empty than hurt all the time. The droplets scraped off the clots over her wounds, exposing them to vacuum. She found beauty in breaking down & in that moment of emotional escalation, she saw his face, just before breaking down. She doubled over in pain, her arms wrapped around herself tight; as if she was holding the remnants within her, preserving what was left of her, her essentials; the fragments she needed to stay alive, to just keep breathing.
Pain was all she ever felt. Pain of loss. Of hurting people around her. Of distancing herself from the everyone. From him, whom she should have forgiven. Pain was what stopped her from loving him, making him her’s: wholly. The distance she could handle, but not the pain she knew she would eventually cause him. Why couldn’t he understand how much she wanted him but had to walk away because she had nothing to give except pain. Her rains, her darkness, her pain, her scars, her anguish, her rage and her broken, jagged, rough and hurtful pieces were hers. Where hope had once filled her eyes, emptiness now made its home.

“I’m miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground
I, I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms”

When the clenching in her stomach eased, she lay down on the grass, dark skies now cradling her surrender; inviting her to become one of them. The raindrops now fell through her as thoughts of what could have been perforated her, creating small openings through which the pieces now ground finely poured out. She didn’t feel a thing. Nothing at all. She shut her eyes and lay there for the longest time; knowing deep inside that this was the last time, that this was it for her. She let her thoughts free and they expectedly wandered to him; his face, his voice, his form, his hands, her hands in his, the days and the nights, the way his breath on her neck cradled her to sleep, the way his fingertips left burn trails on her legs, the way his lips narrated love stories to her back, the way his warm kisses ignited her with a fiery passion, the way fell apart in his arms, the way the distance grew from that day onwards, the way his foot steps sounded mixed with her muffled cries as he walked away.
Thoughts of him didn’t make her cry. They neither hurt her, nor shred her to pieces or make her smile. She did not find his familiarity warm nor did she feel cold and dark.
She got up, went to her bedroom, lay down on the balcony floor; all lights out and lit her joint. She didn’t feel thing. She lay amidst ruins; in ruins. She was hollow; hollow with his longing.

[Tuned into: Set the fire to the third bar: Snow Patrol.]

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Tell me your story

I like knowing. I like knowing people and their stories.
I’m a story collector. I like people and their stories, I like knowing about them, their dislikes, addictions, all the little stories that make them who they are today. I like listening. I like knowing why a person hurts so much, what they feel when they hit rock bottom & what they want to do from there on. In a way, their stories become a part of my life. Part of me. Even if THEY don’t.
Their stories teach me. They talk to me. Whisper their undertones. Hold my hand lovingly & lead me into the unknown. I love knowing people, love listening to them talk about themselves, the way they work, their weaknesses, their habits. I like people when they’re vulnerable because it makes me feel special. It makes me feel like a part of their lives, a part of their story.
Oftentimes, I catch myself thinking about a person very subconsciously. Like I’d be sitting there in class waiting for the lecture to commence & I listen to what I’m thinking about & I find a person there. If I don’t know a person well or his story, I imagine stories that make them what they are based on my judgments of them.
I like talking to people. I really do. Each one of them gets their beautiful colourful patch of story & stick it on my wall. They help me complete my patch wall. They help me complete my story. I like talking to them, knowing their story. I can drink my coffee for hours if I have someone to tell me their story. I like it when I hold someone’s hand, sit them down and say, “Tell me why you’re hurting”. Not because I want to be there for that person ( I mean I do but that’s not the focus). Because I WANT to know what hurts them. The things that hurt people, makes them happy, makes them cry. I like knowing these things. What I say next might just be the stupidest thing ever but of all the stories, I like knowing sad stories the most. The reason being that even the smallest thing makes someone happy. If someone gifts me a pen tomorrow, I’d be the happiest person on Earth. We KNOW happiness. We seek happiness in sadness. We LIKE to be happy. No one likes being sad. No one likes a broken heart. No one likes their wounds because they think it makes them look ugly.
I think sadness is beautiful. Pain is beautiful. Pain is such an overwhelming feeling. It’s merely an abstract but yet so powerful in its intricacies. It’s merely a feeling but yet so sharp that you feel as if someone’s poked something into you. It is merely a word but yet a word spun into phrases, poems, sonnets and paintings. Pain is an art, a war, the darkness that eludes any form of hope, an inspiration, a deep wound, a silent longing, a desired somnolence and a crucial part of our lives.
Pain is the nightmare we wake up from when it’s over and look back to see how strong we really are. Pain is acceptance of things that did not go our way. It is the struggle that helps us become sensitive. It is the cement that helps build those walls around us. It is the anaesthesia that numbs us to other feelings or emotions. It is the hollowness of the eye, the texture of a hand you once held, the streams of mascara on the face when it rains, the soft, concealed sighs at night..it’s so beautiful. And this is the kind of beauty I like. Not because it’s fun or anything. Because it’s so abstract & deep. You can tell someone what “happy” feels like (Sunshine in the rain, A jar of nutella (as my sister defines it), hot coffee on a cold night). But you can’t tell someone how pain feels without being subjective. People who express pain through words & arts intrigue me. They teach me so much! They immediately gain my respect & a very special place on my story wall. Tell me a happy story & I’ll hug you, celebrate it with you, buy you coffee even! Tell me a sad story & I’ll sit there with you under the rain or the starry night sky, cry for you, hold your hand & ask you to tell me more. I’ll stay up all night, listening to you talk about how much you hurt, the places you hurt in, your inhibitions. I’ll hold you for as long as you’d like, kiss your forehead & let you cry in pain till you’re numb all over again.
Yes, I like stories. I’m a “Story collector”. Tell me your story; I’ll love your wounds will all my heart. I’ll photograph your beautiful smile & give you a flower. I’ll listen. Hold your hand when you want me to. Make you coffee. I don’t judge. Every story is inherent to the person telling it. I’ll give you a warm blanket so you don’t have to go away at night when it’s cold.
Tell me a story. YOUR story. Complete mine :)
Oh & after you finish telling me your sad story, I’ll hug you as we leave and say, “Tell me another story tomorrow”.

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