Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "2016"

She knew what she wanted to get, she could get it but she didn’t want it. She wasn’t torn between her needs or wants in this chapter.

Too many of her kind have gone through her mind, far too many, a lot actually. She had been trampled upon for far too long, it was quite enough for this volume. Even she deserved to have better things pass through her; her head needn’t be broken in.

Pages were flipping over; she wanted to be there amidst the all the other creatures, just not like that. She was on her way but she had gotten lost in between the frayed whitewashed brick buildings, near the maddening blue waters. She was scavenging, but she had smashed all the clocks, every pocket watch from striking at midnight. She wasn't going back.

Maybe she was forgetting what she was feeling, but she had convinced everyone inhabiting those pages she wasn’t the monster they were all looking for, she wasn't the monster haunting them. She made all those around her believe that, maybe she believed it too. She was glad they existed so that she could prove she didn’t. She knew she wasn’t alive, still she couldn’t get into that cycle of the bloodmoon, she didn’t want to wear a circlet of reddened mist, take it away.

She supposed she really didn’t mean the part about slaying dragons and happier endings after all. She didn’t lie exactly, she was just not keeping her word, yet oddly enough she wasn’t breaking any promises. That’s why she almost always never promise anything. Because in this retelling, in the reimagining of her story the White Rabbit was as lost as she was. But she liked her story, even as the suns inside her burned her paper to a crisp and burned it still some more, until it was just an orange burnt dreck of a mess left crumbling in her hands.
Weird, she had given up those suns and yet she still wasn’t cold, funny how that worked.

She was standing but she knew where she was going. The blind old women had seen her rise up to scale her summit. She had no reason to mistrust those crones, or distrust what they saw. They had yet to do her a disservice. If the crones saw her on a grassy knoll then that was it. For even though they had everything to live for, they were still hungry for her to sing them a song.

Out in the open, in her green sequin dress that was like a second skin and fuck me-shoes, her decorative winter boots, she was counting the twinkling stars even though she could never count them all, she kept losing the count and had to start all over again. Still, she was doing it, her nose-pin glinting with the night as she tried getting rid of her passenger.

Prankster that she was, she had this whole thing rigged but she knew the difference between a kiss that makes you fall asleep and a poison that wakes you up.

Above all, she could dream. She knew how to do it. Do that.

That kinda magic didn't happen and yet that kinda magic was into her, so she magicked away.

Clearly, this wasn't her suicide but the colors, the colors were all hers.

And remember, it's not as beautiful as it is inside my head and in my head it's not beautiful at all.

It's rather harrowing, dark and dreary. As your last kiss, final words, only prayer should've been.

Instead of the nauseating rainbow you spewed between our ever narrowing gap.

Though I still like your colors, it's raining too much already. I think too fast to exist in this world, so therefore I must write another, where I am the Other.

Hey, busy bee buzz a little while longer, it won't kill your buzz if you buzz a little bit closer. I don't miss you but I still want to kiss you more.
I do not like you at all, but I want you to open your mouth pressed up against mine.
Breathe. Ice. Icy breath. Take it in. Exhale.
On your knees now, get down. You are a monster, you are right but let me finish. I am November. This is not our December, that may never come, but we can wait for it to come again.
Don't walk down any aisles just yet, unless it's an Oreo aisle!

In the smoke of last night, in the haze that was last night, in that fog I didn't tell you.

I had the most weirdest dream and in the fever of its grip, I liked you. In the dream that didn't follow, I liked you too.

I thought I was a dream, but I am just a borrowed word from another's quill, a vault in the sky that's being shattered, a wan light squeezed through the event horizon.

But it was your dream I was having and it is pretty hard to wake up from someone else's dream.

It's hard to remember a song that way.

And then

after a long Halloween, there is this ;

I want to kiss you. For real and in reality. Let's do that, let's make it happen.

I have to, you have to, we have to kiss to remain fae. What happens after that kiss is up to you. Completely up to you. But like I uttered into you, a kiss leaves a trace.

Your weight, your warmth, your mass - lower yourself gently unto me and then all at once.

Pin me down, ground me to my reality, keep me here whilst I annex your reality.
So pin me, ground me, keep me. You are the home I lost, the home I'm looking for, the home I want. You are home.

We should have kissed sooner but we must now. Let's find you in that kiss, let's find me too, let's look for each other enclosed there.

Let's meet in the middle of that kiss, and like what we see, love ourselves and each other.

Let's kiss. Just that. I know you don't want to exist, but what about what I want ? I want to kiss you.

Even if you are hiding in someone's dream. Even if you are lost in my Wonderland. Even if you are another's nightmare, or your own.

Even if you are fake. No, not that, not there, you being fake is something I won't abide.
I'm done being rhetorical, I'm done being whimsical, I'm done being real, I'm done being not in you.

As long as I'm unreal I'd want you. Not soft, not pink I still want you. I want to dip my quills in your scent and write in the air around me, your scent is the only inkwell I'm using nowadays.

Now you be real and respond to this fiction which is just a reflection of your heart ; a slippery friction.

You are not my home but my home is somewhere in you. You once said to me to call upon your pinkness whenever, let me tell you something, let me tell you this.
I love you, more importantly I love you here and I don't want to be here.

I want to finish everything on you.

Tonight.

Enough is enough, let's find a way inside you, in you, and stay there.

Gimme your mouth and watch me come. I'm coming. To you

It was great, sure but it was always temporary, always. What weird things is she doing with her hands whilst she talks, staring her Icelandic stare that can freeze the fjords; she reminds me of a bird trying to breathe, bird made of air. All the Songs damn her. Clues, clues, clues, are all there. Is the blame there, too? Will she cease crying now? Why but why is her own music making her so sad? I didn't fill her up with those songs. You gotta wonder who are those songs for anyways. They are not mine, whose are they? It's a shame really, for in those songs she knows who I am.

She is there and this is what I say to her ;

Aye, you are only a normal person just like me. Until you sing; then, then you are something else entirely. Your music makes me want to stay within myself and not turn at all.

Moon is gone, the wolf is still coming.

In a bare room dusty with longings, she pulled a hard chair made of oak and thistle, in the middle of her space, making him sit down on it, the ungraceful chair trembling with their mingled thoughts.

She moved down his arms, firmly setting them by his sides that became warm by her resentment. She tied a glistening lobster bib around his neck, her movements made slender by her fingertips.

Then she fed him his own words, one by one spooning them in, poisoning him slowly. Words he was crazy enough to give her in their quiet moments.

The truth was, he had only given her his words simply because she had asked him.

Next, she tossed, upturned and then upended an entire barbecue sauce (her own recipe) bottle, pouring all of it on his face, his mouth parting open in protest.

She watched it go all the way down his throat.

He wasn't pinned, he could move. He didn't, neither did she.

They both burned. Both of them. But for very different reasons.

Looking at these books now, I know where the real beauty is at and what's real enough to be beautiful.

I know if she is not read soon enough, she'll disappear but her terms and conditions lay ignored, forgotten and she remains unreadable.

She's the girl from everywhere indeed, build all the times machines you want to but no time can ever get me back to her. It's her who is dangerous not time travel.

December? December is not coming ever again and winter is gone. There is no Ariel. The man in the moon quit long ago, don't you know? It's not the dead who's walking.

But she'll always be my November. Even though all those months between us, hers is the memory I still can't paint, even when she's the one who gave me that memory.

I know that now.

Vaudevillian

To exit the stage on the day of arrival, to leave so unceremoniously, on the same day of your debut is almost like exonerating yourself.

You suborn yourself into an unbirth which is admittedly a greater boon than death. Because what a misfortune it was to be born, what a fuckin' tragedy, being alive greatest of all calamities. We had better things to do, other places to be.

Drop the script, abandon the spotlights and walk away right now. Exeunt yourself from this play and walk out the exit glowing red.
This life a bigger play, the world a grander stage and people better actors.

Don't ask me to choose. The people, or you. I can only do one of you, even though I must say you look quite good in a beaver hat, not meant for you. I can only write off one of you, though which one I do not know, you do. You are already sliding in fresh paper into the typewriter you mean to break.

Sitting on the grass beside the passage that leads down to her hovel, she turned to her companion. "I love it when he says my name."

The White Rabbit turned to her, pulling in its sharp teeth its whiskers twitching. "Which one? You have two."

She shrugged. "Whichever he's using at the moment."

She handed it her knife, standing up she brushed the hem of her dress. "I won't be needing this."

The White Rabbit smiled, its grin as bright as her teeth glinting in the darkness completely devoid of moon.