Her

Have you ever seen someone

Lose faith in front of you

Powereless, crying  clawing at the head

Kneeling, begging, sweating

Face red and contorted like the body

Like the mind in shambles

Have you ever seen their breath move

As it fills and leaves the lungs in vain

The hair in clumps flowing through fingers clutched

Have you ever seen someone in pain

As they crash in front of your eyes

Falling from a height divine

Their existence a burden their hearts can’t bear

Have you seen such a thing and lived 

Knowing you were the push off the brink

How does one live, knowing they killed a mind

And left it to rot in a flesh-clad machine

Tell me how I wash off the guilt

No soap can clean the grime off my skin

And no prayer can clean the filth off my soul

And my heart weighs me down like an anchor in my being

Have you ever seen someone lose sanity in front of you

Reach out to extinguish the glimmer of hope in an eye

Rub the wick between their fingers till the flame loses life

I see the mirror every night 

And see the other me as a dead girl with a smile 

A corpse trying hard to look alive

I have seen her stand defeated in front of me

And she doesn’t go away ever

Even when the mirror is broken and dead

She blooms in the shards like a ghost of past

How To Converse like Sheep


Sustaining a lively and unadulterated mind requires a practice of self preservation from any element of literature that might pose as a threat to the naivety of everyday life. The real struggle lies not in your pursuit for meaning or reason, rather it lies in keeping your demeanor and social display firmly eschewed from your beliefs; unless you wish your ideas and thoughts to devour your sanity as a whole. A distraught conduct leads the individual vulnerable and perilously exposed. An attempt to exhibit firm control on one’s actions must therefore, be practised diligently.

A societal manner best adopted would be hence to engage the listener in an essentially hollow yet witty chat regarding the latest gossip, carefully circumventing any topic of politics or social perils. Much like George Orwell’s oblivious society in his novel 1984, (but mind you don’t let anyone know the novel has mentally affected you, the simple excuse of casual reading should suffice if anyone seems curious) one cannot trust the people around to fully grasp and comprehend the grave nature of our current situations. Petty conversations about celebrities and fashion should be more than pleasing to ears that know nothing of the sound war artillery makes. 

The question then arises, how does one successfully spot an intellectul among a crowd of sheep. In a desperate attempt to find a mind with whom one can share their darkest theories with, one forgets that everyone has a specific threshold for darkness. One person’s level of darkness might be enough to drive another into madness. One risks the hazard of being responsible for stealing the spring from the step of their listener by rambling about reality. One risks surpassing the listener’s threshold for dark thoughts in their desperation to let theirs go.

The best way to go about, therefore, would be to take turns with one’s mind. Daylight means you control your body and actions. Night time is when, in the safe confines of your room,  away from people, you may let the darkness take over. A pen and a paper should be present always on one’s side for when things get out of hand and regaining control of one’s concious mind seems a struggle. There lies a beautiful strength in endurance.

Survival of the fittest?

The human mind: an intricately woven tapestry of logic, forever baffling the onlooker with such casual majesty. The more one tries to unravel its pathways, the deeper they find themselves trapped into this labyrinth. Just a few sparks running up and down invisible cells, in terms of physics. Just a few hormones holding together the fort of sanity, in terms of chemistry. Creation at its finest, in terms of religion.

Doesn’t it steal your sleep every night then, just thinking of what it is capable of? Everything we do–everything our brain commands our vulnerable bodies to do– is for the sole purpose of better survival. Struggle for existence is what we have evolved to master. Survival of the fittest is what nature has ensured, ever since the beginning of time.

Then how does a perfectly healthy person go into self-destruct mode? How do the same chemical messengers that keep you sane, turn their guns against the body they are supposed to be serving? How do the same electrical impulses convince the mind that the world would be a million times better without them in it? That the feeling of despair would leave once you start slitting your skin? That intoxication is the answer to all problems? That death cures all infliction?

The same brain producing the hand-jerk reflex, should your finger contact fire, is now telling you to jump over the cliff when you’re on a family trip to the mountains. The same brain that stops you from eating moulded food, should you get ill, is now reluctant to move from in front of a truck advancing towards you while you’re crossing the road. What snaps in the mind to think that the body it serves is not enough. Not fit to survive. What makes it refuse any struggle to exist?

 

Escape

There is poison in my eyes
Let me cry it out
Hate boils in my veins
Let me bleed it out
My soul, it suffocates
In this vessel you put it in
Let me set it free
Let me taste escape
Let me cry and bleed and die
For I no longer have the cure
The drugs, they don’t numb anymore
The brain is always throbbing
With a never ending pain
And then this itching desire
to claw at the veins
Why don’t you let me free the mind
The bliss that lies beyond the veil
Is calling out to me, my friend
The peace the grave must bring
Surpasses this sleep they put me in
And the heaven that runs through these tubes
No more tastes the same as you
So I lay in this bed, commatose
And I no longer have the cure
The brain wants to let go of the soul
And the veins want to let go of the blood
And the eyes, they never stop
Pouring memories of you in stone
And the heart, it keeps on beating
Singing rhythms of dellusions
Let me cry and bleed and die
Before the soul lets go of hope

Hiccups

Remember how Mother would say every time we’d get hiccups, that somewhere somebody must be thinking of you, or missing you, or talking of you. And at the mention of their name, the hiccups will stop. She’d say the hiccups serve as a reminding-tool, making us keep our loved ones in our hearts forever, never letting us forget them.

Well, I sit here tonight in the cold of your abandoned room, my face buried in a pillow, wet with tears and blood. The soft muffling my sobs. Your rusting blade is in my hand, speckled with blood that’s been running stale now. It’s 3 am and I’ve been thinking of you. Fresh warm scarlet is trickling down my arms. Have those hiccups come yet? I miss you. Your memories are poisoning my present. Everyday they grow and consume my sanity inch by inch.

Have those hiccups come already? Have you taken my name yet?  They tell me to forget you. How can I? They tell me you’re in a better place. Is that true? Then why would you leave me in such misery? You haven’t forgotten your big sister have you? Why don’t those hiccups come? I’m going mad maybe, for expecting you to think of me. Yes, I must be going mad, expecting corpses to hiccup and speak.

 

Those days

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There will be days when you will want to cry but tears won’t come.There will be days where everything would seem meaningless and emotions will be hollow. There will be days when even the funniest jokes would leave you broken on the bathroom floor later. There will be days when you will be surrounded by people—friends, but you’ll be lonelier than ever. And they will try to cheer you up, and you’ll fake a smile.

Then there will be days when all you’ll want to do is be alone. Just you and your penknife. Your skin as your canvas. Your clothes damp with blood that’s been running stale.
And let me tell you, it will be on days like these that reality will hit you. You’ll be able to filter your friends from acquaintances. You’ll finally be able to see what actually matters—who actually matters.
It will be after days like these, that you will find Him caressing your soul. The fog will clear as you free yourself from that black hole you used to call life. It will be peace from the on. Eternal peace.
For no one disturbs the dead.