Heads up, I attended a flashfiction workshop yesterday and I attempted working with restrictions this afternoon, giving myself an exact word count of 222 for each section.
I spent an afternoon reading the poems I once wrote for you, and the backpedalling, accompanied by the revelation of the meanings behind my seemingly juvenile words was more than enough to deepen the hairline cracks. I used to write about having impractical voyages high amongst the intricately strung innocence of the clouds, settling at an appalling altitude with a slowing heart melting in the heat, a meshed slab of molten regret. I then spoke of being inhumed within the rigid walls of clandestine conversations hidden amongst the sodden company of earth, lying with ice cold hands against soft cotton, ash ceasing its struggle within the ebullient flames.
The last stanza was haunting, and a little of a stretch. A cutting line, glistening jems, ends honed with explicit superiority as they perforated pale skin – seeping into one’s ichor as redemption leaked through ebony sins. I spoke of vicious parasites, their roots deep and expansive. I reveled in piercing silence, a silent plead for a remedy lending credence to my daydreams, venom within my veins.
And I noticed how foolish, and utterly infantile I was.
It wasn’t just about swaying along with the sea breeze, or a simple game of cards, neither was it taking the risk to fall into the depths of cold where our last breath would speak of a conundrum.
Everything begins when we’re young and a little juvenile, when we begin to feel bits of the weight of the world on our shoulders.
Redefining skewed thoughts isn’t easy, yet its effortless in your asphyxiating presence. She doesn’t complain, because she feels herself cracking slightly with every word against crumpled paper. Because she’s running out of time, fighting against her own will.
Because when a soul’s chained to rusty anchors with nothing but sorrow to its interior, she doesn’t have any alternatives.
But it’s not as shallow as having the ironic patience in condoning every flaw and finding beauty forcefully, it’s not romanticizing silence and every little glance. And allowing this spark of attachment to dictate one’s decisions and thoughts is definitely not part of the job description. Even the need to write, to express feelings towards him in the form of poetry wasn’t a clear enough indication of one’s true thoughts, because it didn’t always equate to endearment.
There’s a faint line between true camaraderie and things beyond that, and the befuddled would say that drawing this very line with adequate strength against the gravel was truthfully, the most difficult portion.
Perhaps the problem still remains that we’re skilled at criticizing definitions and going against these statements without being certain about what we really want, or what we actually believe in.
A flash of neon and pale skin, and perhaps I’m proud to say that I’ve learnt and progressed, and I’ve finally realized, a tad bit too late, that some things are meant to be watched from afar, perfection likened to that of a fresh painting fearful of human touch, fearful of its vibrant colours being smudged over with black, with grey, with bitter stinging scars.
Heaven, per say, is not always beautiful with vast pastures close to perfection, clear waters the very reflections of our souls and the congregation of our years of tears. These things weren’t limited to sudden brushes of skin, or heartfelt laughter, neither did they follow a merciless template formed by fragments of our vulnerability left out in the sun to dry.
And perhaps I would admit that I have only myself to blame for losing my directions constantly, anticipating emptiness and failing myself when cluttered anger and aggressiveness hovers.
If it were to be what I perceived loving someone to be, a word would suffice to do everything disappointment does best. It would pack the punch sufficient to leave me crumbling, but encompass warmth likened to a cup of hot milk against jolts of a bad episode of gastric pains. But I wouldn’t find myself on both far ends of the spectrum, because that’d be an overdose.
And you might, for a few seconds, fit these spaces perfectly.