I apologise to my soul

Hi,

It has been days I have not written about you. I have been procrastinating in even loving myself.

I am sorry, Saima.

I really am.

I am sorry I can’t help you when you cry in that corner of wet bathroom, drenched but in tears. I am sorry that all I can do is stare at you when you want to talk to someone, to anyone or anything. I am sorry I cannot hold your hand when you wanted to run away from all these mess. And I am sorry that I cannot comfort you when you cannot sleep and just stare at the ceiling in the darkness.

Also, I am sorry for not loving you.

I am still trying to. I am trying my best. I am trying my best to stop you from hating yourself, from harming yourself, and to stop you from not breathing. It takes time and it will take more. More and more.

I know you want to live in your own cocoon and be all anti-social 365 days a year, but deep down inside you want to be friends with that girl in your class, talk to old friends, talk to your family, have an ice-cream, go out wherever the fuck you want, tell your crush you love him/her, and play your ukulele and sing your heart out, and mend things, anything.

I know you want to fight and live for yourself.

Whoever is reading this, if you’re still reading this, thank you. Thank you to anyone and everyone for reading my story and (may be) understanding my pain.

It’s not always this sad but sometimes, out of nowhere, while listening to Kabira in the middle of the day, I suddenly think of crying. Yes, an urge to cry and I don’t know why. I don’t know why I am sad. Well, I know and don’t know at the same time. And this fact creeps me out.

If at any point, you think I am speaking nonsense and bullshit, guess what, I am. That’s what I think of myself. And that’s why I write and not speak to people. Because it’s bullshit. Yes.

But Saima, just know that I will always be there for you no matter what. I will be there for you even when I am broken and busy trying to find my missing pieces under the GIANT table of life.

Hi Saima

Hi Saima,

I know

It’s not easy.

I know
It’s not easy to breathe.
To wake up every morning.
To hope and
May be to live.

And it’s definitely not easy to control your dam of tears.

Why is there no baggage claim section for your emotional baggages?

Why I can’t just leave them in the airport of darkness?

Why is it so heavy that even Sisyphus can’t roll it?

I sit in the class wondering the power of my glasses,
that with so much strength for vocabulary,
I still can’t find a single word for the storm going inside me
And this storm is as numb and as cold as the wet pillow from last night.

Dear Saima,
You see a monster in the corner of your room every night.
Feeding on you.
On your soul.

You walk up to it, turn it around and see a mirror.
You scream and scream. And scream.
No soul to hear. Not even yours.
That scream is just powerful enough to break the damn mirror. And the reflection.

I am SORRY, Saima, that you have to empty your tank of tears and return to the same spot every night.
I am sorry, that your life can’t be another episode of F.R I.E.N.D.S. OR Modern Family.
I am sorry, that your life can’t be fiction..
I am sorry, that you have to listen to ‘Rehna Tu’ of AR Rehman with a gigantic loneliness beside you.

The length of the rope,
The distance between the blade and the wrist,
The number of pills.
Seems easy to calculate sometimes
Rather than the weight on your tiny heart.

The fact that depression is a “cliché” seems more saddening than cringey. You know.
It shows that so many hearts and souls are crying in that corner every night.
Considering themselves the monster.
Blaming the constellation.
And how they wish their stars to be dead.

But, Saima, just know this that
I will be there for you.
It’s okay to cry like a baby and wake up every morning from that fresh cocoon.

And if not Chandler to your Monica, I will be the Phoebe to your smelly cat.

I will be there to put a stool under your feet, Everytime you’re hanging from that noose.
I will be there to throw away the blade before the disaster happens.
I will be there to flush all your sleeping pills.

I will be there for you every night to put you in fresh bed and dry pillow.
So that you can start the process.
And we can continue with this vicious cycle.
Every day and every night.

I will be there for you.

Existence of the unknown/known.

The sky’s blue
With the warmth of the sun
Sitting under my own shade
Winds hitting the surface of my skin
Reading the questions of my existence.

With every petal
Falling on my grave
The loop goes on.
With every second
My memory blurs
Like ink dilutes in water.
You shall remember me
The day on my death bed.
And never before .

4:22 AM

As I lie down in my bed at 4:22 AM.
I think of all those moments that never happened. That could have have happened but didn’t.

I imagine a sky above me.
Stars filled to the brim
I close my eyes with tears filled in them and I think why didn’t those moments happen, why did not I let them happen.

The imaginary ceiling collapse as I close my eyes, slowly. And a drop of tear falls off from the corner of my right eye.

The existence of that tear is as miniscule to others as the imaginary ceiling is to me.

I wonder what if those moments happen .

What if I let them happen.
The imaginary ceiling would have been real?
I would have slept without the tear?
And even if I did not would it be as miniscule as it is now?

Paper Planes

I would love to feel your breath
On my neck
With every hour passes by
To be with you
I want to see your lips
On my lips

Everytime I see you
My heart collapses
Your touch makes my skin
Go all numb
Each letter I write to you
Is filling my drawer
Sitting by the window
Holding your hand
The pink sunset is
Leaving by your side.

Itching my goosebumps
Given by you.
Bruises on my elbows
From the walls of memoirs
Tummy hurts of both your
Laughter and pain
Tips of your fingers
To connect your heart

Waiting at the gate
With sunflowers drooping down
Petals falling by
With tears from over the balcony.
Paper planes flying over
To your destiny.

Waiting For Godot

Nowhere

We will become strangers one day and none of us will even care about it.
Not even care about the smiles we shared.
Not even care about the memories we created.
Not even about the tears we gave each other.
.
We will just care about our Selfishness.
Just about ourselves.
Just about that moment when I hurt YOU and YOU hurt me to that extent that led us here.
Led us nowhere.
.
We will become strangers one day.
Ignoring each other’s sight like we were nothing to each other.
Like we didn’t know what we liked and disliked.
Like we didn’t know what made us smile and what made us cry. Of which we chose most of the latter one.
Like we didn’t had the memory of the nights and days spent. .
.
We will become strangers one day.
Physically.
Our souls screaming. Our hearts crying.
For us. .

My Canyon of emotions

It is okay to cry, to cry your soul out.
It is okay to feel vulnerable, to need someone.

It is okay.

But.. but.. It is not okay to suppress all these and lock them inside a box known as “societal insecurities”
Sometimes crying is all you need because you need to wet that dryland you created known as “I am fine”.

Yes, I need someone. I am not being dependent on someone else. Even if I am being I don’t care anymore.
I need another soul to feel my soul.
Love it, caress it, care for it, scar it in all good ways
And most importantly, want it as much as I want his.

It is important to cry once in a while or whenever you need to because you dont want to fill it and one day to burst like a grenade and hurt others, But most importantly hurt yourself.

You dont want that, Do You?

I want to see the silver lining on the sky of my own world but the clouds remain at their places just like my stagnant mind. Those clouds are known as “depression”

Those clouds gather and rain down on me . Those droplets are known as “insecurities”

In all these years, I learnt a thing.

Most of the times, the thing you create kills You.

Cancer, a thing created by the cells of the body, kills the body.

Bombs, created by humankind, killing humanity.

Social media, created to connect, kills self-esteem and gives birth to ego and fake masks

Hatred, created by human, kills love, also created by humans.

Frankenstein wasn’t the monster, He was the creator. But in the course of the novel became a slave.
And lastly depression. It wasn’t the monster, I was. But just like the novel, I became a slave.

And that’s the truth.

My cage of meat seldom show it on her face. But that’s okay.
I dont want people to feed it with sympathy and make it bigger than it already is. My hands jot down about it here there and everywhere. Giving it power to grow on me.

On my soul.

It is like that toxic relationship where the love controls you, hates You, looks down on you and eventually kills you. Kills your soul.

But everything is just fine.
It is feeding on my soul.

I am fine (HELP ME)

Follow me on Instagram @et.tu.saimus https://www.instagram.com/?hl=en

Starry Night.

Tried to recreate something that has always kept me in awe, every single time.. Van Gogh ❤️

follow me on Instagram for more such creations :- et.tu.saimus

The evening window

As I stand in front of the evening window,
I feel the cool breeze of the orange sky and cotton clouds.

I realise one thing, which I realise everyday, that how fragile my thoughts and full my bank of tears are.

Sometimes I am scared of myself that how one person can be so cruel and yet so weak. Weak enough to not even control her own thoughts that wander around like those cotton clouds in the Orange sky.

I gaze outside the evening window a bit more. I see kites of several colours flying above. And I feel this incessant thirst inside me to run in a green field with kites above me and run like a crazy woman, which I already am.

With this thirst, I also have this dire need to scream till my vocals die so that I don’t require this need again.
I think we all need this need.

These thoughts, thirst and need take place in a span of 2 minutes and 35 seconds approximately.
At 2 minutes and 36 seconds I close the window so that I don’t feel the cool breeze of the evening sky.

I don’t like the fact that my dead flesh can feel things. A corpse do not have any need, thirst or thoughts.

There is no breeze anymore just the darkness of the Black Glass of the evening window and I somehow find solace in that because it resonates how I see and how I feel.