Time Check

 

8AM. I woke up feeling unusual. For the past years, mornings were different.
From my window, the rays of sunlight peeked, as if a voyeur, who wants to eavesdrop into my room. I pulled the curtains to the side and unhinged the locks to open the windows. I slowly pushed the panels out and opened the windows fully.
Now the room was filled with light and warmth from the sun. Particles of dust float in the atmosphere. I slowly folded my sheets and placed them on the piles of used clothes inside the laundry basket. Then I put on new sheets to the mattress where we used to lay, where we used to snuggle the whole afternoon, where you rest your head on my arm while you tell me stories which now I don’t know which ones are true and which ones are not. It was unusual. The scent of the fabric doesn’t blend with the scent of your perfume anymore. Not anymore.
For the past 1095 plus days, mornings were… different from this one…
10AM. I pulled out the drawers. There were bottles of wine, empty bottles of rum, half-full bottles of gin. I took them out, stared at each bottle, one by one like they were vials containing some sort of memory. There was one full bottle, the one I intended to open the day you pass the boards. Obviously, we – or I never had the chance to open it. Then there were empty bottles, I don’t know exactly how many there are. Maybe, they are as many as the times when I felt empty since the day you said you’ve had enough. I placed them in a paper bag which I would take out to throw into the trash. All of them, along with your letters containing paragraphs of lies you scribbled so nicely.
11 AM — We used to have breakfast this time. We used to sit opposite to each other while we talk about our plans. But now, I’m only having coffee which I should’ve had a long time ago to wake up from all the illusions I have always chosen to believe in.
Finally, I can get out of the house feeling every part of my body is normal. I can feel my arms without imagining that you’re holding it. I can feel my hands without feeling that yours are intertwined with them. I can feel like a normal person which for so long I have never been. I can feel that I am enough and I have had enough.

Time has healed every crack, every fissure, and every wound you have left. So it is time, to write this last letter to you.

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Scars

We lay on our backs, without the things that cover the mountains and the crevices, our faults and our soul’s openings. We stretch against the cotton sheets that felt too cold, and sometimes that felt too odd, because, the only things that are warm and familiar are the tendons and the ligaments of each other’s arms.  We collapse and we both share the thin air that was made for us both. And our palms glide in each other’s skin like we were born with the same complexity and fairness.

But we are both scarred.

You have childhood scars as I have my own. There was one, you said was caused by being burnt by a motor’s muffler. Another from tripping off a stone that had your knees several cuts.

But there are many more scars we do not even remember having. And there are more scars that aren’t seen, could not be touched, only felt. They are the faults we cannot see. Cracks that are hidden. Fissures that just lay there unnoticed.

There are scars that make you dislike the rain. The last time he kissed you was on a rainy night in June. He promised, that no matter how strong the storm could get, he will always be there to tuck you in his arms, to stay with you as the thunder claps its loudest. But then, he fell in love with someone else who loved to dance in the rain. And you were left on your own, outside, in the middle of the storm that there’s no stopping.

You iron your clothes carefully, without a single crease. How you fix your hair every minute. How you look at the mirror for an hour or two to make sure you look good before going out. And all because, you thought he left you because someone else was way good looking than you.

How you never sit next to the window on the bus, you never look at the mini-stop at the corner, and you never want to sleep with huge pillows, all because, you are scared of seeing him. You are scared of seeing memories of you and him together. Best to avoid the things that remind you of who you were around him.

There are scars that make you cringe every single time you hear his favorite song. Or how you wish you were deaf when someone mentions his name.

And there are deeper scars that make you who you are and have become unnoticeably a natural part of you. They are ones that warn you to stay still even when your heart is racing. The ones that hold you back. The ones that make you refuse to love and take it, each time it is given.

But now, we lay uncovered. With all our flaws exposed. Your own set of legs and thighs intertwined with mine. We share the same air and for once, our hearts beat in the same rhythm.

Darling, I tell you, you are scarred and all of us are. Memories may linger in every inch of you but we are all scarred and scars are only reminders of the past. They may or may not disappear, but I promise you, they all heal.

Don’t be afraid. You are scarred, but you are beautiful.

 

 

Tyre

We stare at the wreckage the storm has brought. We stare at the pieces of wood, the pieces of garments, the pieces of the sail, and the pieces of us. We too have become remnants of the storm.

We are navigators.

We are in our ships away from the harbor, journeying the seamless ocean. There are nights when we see the stars. We spend hours admiring how marvelous these bodies of heaven look in the open sky. We hold bottles of rum and sing the sailors’ anthem. We all turn into bards and tell the tales of our adventures.  There are mornings when the scent of the sea wakes us and the breeze, so perfect that we’d just like to lie in our sheets. Sometimes, the pitter -patter of the rain against the water would silence us and peacefully, we just stare at the droplets as they fall. We are the helmsman of our wheel. We decide on every turn and route we take. We see how the sky kisses the sea. We see how the sun gently folds its rays against the horizon. And again, we shall be gently put to sleep by the waves that rock our boats like little cribs. Maybe tomorrow when we wake, we could discover an island that hides treasures.

Sometimes life is just perfect.

Then suddenly strong winds hit us.

It starts like a soft whistle. Like a short interruption in our sleep. It is a warning coming from somewhere. And it grows and howls in the middle of the night.

The gentle waves have become rough. The winds are stronger and our sails shake and tear apart. We struggle to keep our boats in balance. Our ropes are shorter than we think. We lose our patience and we tug so hard that they break. The winds blow harder and the rain has soaked our carriages. The water starts to seep in like death slowly crawling on our feet. We are sucked into a whirlpool where there is no escape. The ocean, we thought was gentle became a monster that will devour every life in us. We hold on to the edge, we kneel side by side. We pray for deliverance.

The winds slowly calmed. And the night has become peaceful again, so peaceful that the silence has been deafening.

We have lived and survived… but we are lost.

The turbulent waves have sent us somewhere we haven’t sailed yet, somewhere unfamiliar.

Our boats are damaged, just strong enough to keep us afloat. We sail in the endless ocean thinking, when shall we reach land? We have lost the helm and we just have to go where the waves take us. There are nights when we think about just diving into the water and disappear among the bubbles that we left behind. We stare at the wreckage the storm has brought. We stare at the pieces of wood, the pieces of garments, the pieces of the sail, and the pieces of us. We too have become remnants of the storm.

As we continue to float, we long for the harbor. In the middle of chaos, and even in the middle of emptiness, we long for the harbor. In a place where we will be welcomed; where our tired bodies shall meet with soft sheets and warm embraces. Where wounds shall be treated until they all heal. Where loneliness shall be replaced with companions wishing to hear the tales of the adventure. Where we are again in control of the turns and the routes we take. Where the wreckage shall just be a distant dream and we could start rebuilding dreams again.

When we reach the harbor, we will not be called lost souls anymore…

but we shall be called navigators again.