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I thought you were a Raven, you turned out to be a crow

Why does my heart beat slow down atypically every time the rickshaw decelerates in the middle of a dimly lit street? The abstraction of being nauseates me and in a trice, the idea of being myself is abhorrent and abominable to me.

Once I’ve set out on this causeway, I can start seeing in light of the larger scheme of things, as dispiriting as this may sound, maybe human endeavour is futile, maybe there is nothing called meaningful action but if there is no intent of purpose anchored to this dystopian reality, what would be the point in indulging in the Daedalian modus operandi involved in achieving anything, why should we stop being complacent or praxis having a better understanding or more wisdom. It’s much easier to go through the course of life by rejecting all moral principles and ethical precepts.

I’ve allowed my head to be in a perpetual state of aporia by letting you walk into my life and become the reason for my nemesis. Maybe, the very illusion of my being is so revolting to me because of what I did to us, what I allowed us to become. I allowed us to travel the distance from Thankyous to Sorries. I burned down the bridges.
You say it’s 4 am and you want me to not put you through mazes, I remember you asking me to move on and I did like you were dead but why then am I splurging in this necromancy? I found a needle in the haystack, I stuck to you even when you tasted like regret, when I deserved someone who smelled of coffee and brought me poetry. We were so much under each other’s skin or was it just me, to the bane of my existence, we caused casualty, the things we said got lost in translation because we didn’t even speak of the same dream, you caused me to momentarily look at the world through rose coloured glasses, romanticize life and commit sins of passion. Maybe Kierkegaard had been right about aestheticism, did we fall apart because we couldn’t find a deeper purpose? But we had to have a silver lining to us. The intermingling of our souls, an act of god, our falling apart, an unraveling of the secret of the cosmos, I could have as many catechisms and the truth would still be incomprehensible. You fed me colorful pills that were bitter and I chased them with whiskey, so was I in love or was I just drunk?

I don’t believe it but you’re gone and I sit here at the table with a glass of wine in my hand, as I try to break an addiction by succumbing to another.

We kept fooling around like birds and bees but let me tell you honey, Bees. Your poetry tasted like honey, you tasted like whiskey sour. Maybe there are some films you watch again and again because there’s the comfort of knowing what comes next and I never found that with you, I aged of not knowing, I couldn’t continue living like that, in instability, in the discomfort of never knowing, the pretend had to come to an end.
My order was chaotic, I could cry up an avalanche, smoking caffeine, drinking nicotine. don’t be mistaken, you only led me on because I let you. I have as much melanin in my skin as Kāli that you couldn’t just rinse off, I was strong but I was being meretricious, why did I forget I was only being strong within the ambit of patriarchal norms? We are four hours and light years apart, the only reason distances scare me so much is because of how easily I detach myself from things, people, jewelry. I put that distance between us and yet that one crowded hour of glory had been enough. You walked into my life like a winter morning, calm and composed but little did you know about the tempest you had created, it felt good, like taking walks in the night of an abandoned parking lot, sort of nice. You walked into my life like a winter morning, calm and composed and went by just as quickly.
And, even then, you still live, in all the songs that I sing, the books that I read and every character that I’ve loved.

O Moonshine! I never stopped loving you, I hope you’re doing well or maybe I hope that you’re living in hell

About Maria Ansari

Maria Ansari
The blogger is a university student, who's reading history and writing herstory, someone who is foolishly optimistic about making a world of difference with her words

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