Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "feb"

I am to empty the skies around me, all of them all of you, made emptier still by your presence, your absence never was all that empty. All the stars on your body tugging me, pulling me to you. You breathe they glow, they breathe you exist. Yet there is no exit. They gleam with shyness, these dying heavenly bodies lying on a celestial you May girl, each time I kiss them, quietening every single one of them. Some songs, like you, are home. And I am going home tonight. Don't wait up for me.

Instead of finishing this, I’ll just remember it. Something to do with the monsters, right? Maybe it's about just one Monster in particular. We’ll let everyone else decide which one. Who that monster be. Either way, that’s too many monsters. Though none of them are here, that’s one monster too many.

Or maybe I’ll just take some time off, kick back a little bit, calm down some, chill, and have a manic night out. Letting all those ghosts think of me ought to do it, should do it; help me relax that is. They wouldn’t let me drink alone anyway, let alone unwind without them. They can't touch me, yet they know how to unknot something loose in me. They can feel me even if they can't see me.

You know what though, it’s so funny. I keep running to myself. In circles too. I look around here and all that is here. Come on, look around yourself. This is my life now? To oscillate between bitter sadness and ruinous anger.

Yeah, I don’t think so, either.
I wouldn’t.

Be reasonable please, not all has to do with he-

Well, will you look at that. Lookit here. Look at her. Storms she’s brewing secretly, would she pour them in her cracked pot? Storms did provide. Let me Mario Puzo this. OK, done. Couch in his den was comfortable.

She likes to read the journals of Sylvia Plath, still she wouldn’t let go of the moon. She knows better, she does. But. I guess. There’s. Too much wolf in her.

What a civilian she is in her immediate surroundings, squarely placed there by happenstance, but not quite. I mean, look at her skinning that dead black cat, not bad for a rookie. What? At least it’s dead. She’s stirring the pot now. I am cooking something, she says unnecessarily, it’s a little red lung.

We watch her, I don’t even know who the other person is, it’s just me, don't know why I said we, there's barely me here. But indeed we watch her put the black gunk in her mouth, watch her chew the liquorice substance thoroughly, her mouth glistening red. In another take, looking at her again, it looks like glowworms, half forgotten, are hanging out of her open mouth.

She's no artisanal fisherman to say the least, but look at her casting perfect lines. You want me to spell it out for you, lemme, spell it out then; for a nonstarter, she’s doing a rather decent job of churning out those spells, as is proper.

She'd often wonder who is there to hear her sing. We're here. Listening to her song, she keeps repeating my name through it though. Like that charm would work. Such a novice. Endless her, there is no end to her. Of her. For her. Okay, I am out. Fy Nghariad? Oh, fuck you too. But thank you. I miss tea she didn’t make there. But yeah, she’s definitely not worth her happiness, not worth haunting, her happiness is no reason to keep her. Her weight is a burden. Entire weight of Water is in her voice, and all my memories are collapsing under it. Go away. It's too deep.

I must wake up from this, before I pick up this bullet from the ground. Though there is no false valentine here. But there is no point in looking for better Fridays now. She’s up there in the verdant mountains, I can't get to her. She won't come back. She did love those alpine forests more than any dwellings that would have her. So I’ll just look for the newer Black Rabbit Halls to roam around.

In my own corner of the night, whatever comfort I can get, I'll find solace in my own blackened thoughts that do not own me.

I feel like that Never is so much better than Forever, kinder even like the false side of fiction, don't you?

Maybe. Maybe that's why Peter Pan is forever ageless in Neverland.

Never or forever. I think, I think I definitely want one of the two from you.

Sure, why not?

So, when will you say forever?

Never.

In this Age of Misinformation, shrewdly crafted and Misshapen fears that are purely manufactured and quite frankly nonexistent, Russel Brand an unlikely Hero? Anything's possible in the last days, or rather nights of the swollen moon of July.

Brand's activism and antics are entertaining that's for sure. Thing that is most endearing, though it shouldn't have been that surprising, as Human Clay points out generalization is wrong, pigeonholing someone is never a good idea.

Nonetheless, the most glaring aspect of all his efforts is his ability to think, to ponder, or rather to Rethink the established firm line of thoughts and the unchallenged status quo.

An ability to just think for yourself is an attribute that is sorely missing elsewhere and everywhere.

He burned so many bridges with her
that when he was finally done, his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.

All the bridges in his new world and the old- gone. No smolder, or flicker of flames, there weren’t any forest fire this time around, not even a rumor of wisps of any kind remained.

No palls of smoke, no palls of sadness to entertain.

In the kaleidoscope of dust, grime, smoke and blood, he burned all the bridges or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.

Afterward

When there was time for an afterlife

Everything became wet ash

The very sillage in the air was of smoke from her burnt dreams, the air resounded with the rosemary of her surrender.

Everything tasted like her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasted like forever.

The other remaining Muses, the one who he didn’t drain, brought him up to the green hill and into the shade of her tree, all in the name of commiserating left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of sooth he had come to cherish, ditching him leaving him all on his own, grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.

Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could save, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.

What the ferryman demanded was too high a toll, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.

On the grassy knoll, he found himself again in the umbrage of her tree, reviving his words.

Tucked away in her cold shadows, he found unknown warmth

Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hands.

But that wasn’t enough to bring her back. It never is. For she was never there.

It's better to let go than to recreate. It's always so much better to create something new, especially when you are not in anywhere new, place or mental state.

When it's all the same, you don't have to be. And yeah, I know. I look the same as I did when she told me she thought she loved me. I am still the same, still look the same.

Looking at her now, with Sigur Rós warning me in the background, is making me so nostalgic for her.

As she is now, she's reminding me of the girl she used to be; never real but always magical.

So full of things that dissolved in the air. Though I'll say this though. The red of her mouth looks so unfamiliar now, seems unknown, feels empty and moves nothing in me.

Time has distorted and squeezed her mouth into something unbearable, I hardly recognize it. But her breath is still familiar, still feels like her. Monstrous, ruining women, weakening men, and making all the clowns happy.

Her torn lips no longer telling the story of the rain, but the memory of the fish lingers on.

She is still moving on, not dour, leaving now. Heading full tilt in just one direction. Where could that be. A place where she dreams about her reflection, but she dreamt that too much.

She's burned out now, her burnt fingers aching something else in her.

Where else is she going to meet me other than the Graveyard of the Trees.

It's there I'll give her what remains of tonight.

In exchange of the spiral, spindly and liquid, I will give her the night.

I can’t talk about the Moon right now, so full so firm so full of you like you are too full of it. Really, I can't spare a song but I really need you to be inside a song right now, so that I can listen to you over and over and over again. Until you become a broken record that still needs to be broken. That's the only way I can remain calm. But listen. No, not this day, it's not about today but you became that song I sing all the way home. And I know I just know, If I wanted to, I can always find you between the notes of the right kind of music. I know your story better than anyone, I just wonder if I'd ever get back to telling it.

Brick fireplace was alive and glowing, the kindling crackling quietly, the flames stirring lazily and the heat making the walls of the stonekeep happy.

Sitting on his lap, she was reciting to him a dream. But it was his dream she was telling. He didn't mind that, yet he did. That dream burned her mouth like a hot coal, but shaking her head, she didn't spit it out, insisting on finishing the dream he already knew how it'd end. He didn't like that, yet he did.

She continued to tell him about what was familiar to him. The dream was barren and so was his backyard. It was still snowing, in the flurries of the snow, she was there too, unlike everything else put there covered in snow.

She unfolded all for him, rough brambles, the wilted butterfly bushes that were sad and bitter, the trees far away from the fence, the branches lonely, the leaves gone and the weather mirthless. She was different there inside his dream, she felt different. Then she started to become familiar like when new music sets in and you feel like you know it, yet there was still something off about her, she seemed unaltered. She was still discontent.

She seemed colder than his dream and his dream was already cold, felt colder still.

In retelling his dream, she was changing what he knew about her, she was changing her texture in his mind. She went on reimagining so out in the backyard in the cold, the elements were changing her to be sure, but she was doing something to the elements too.

She was getting warmer by the second, while the rest of the world was getting colder, colder, and colder still. That dream almost done having them, almost sated by now.

He adjusted her on his lap, as she adjusted his dream for him. She had always reminded him of warmth of all the suns in winter.

But in the dream she was giving him that was once his, and yet he kept looking for her in the snowflakes.

It's not the darkness but the light that's unnatural. Out in the open, way out there and all alone, the constant darkness is the norm. All that emptiness always felt a little too intimate and spatial. The vast and empty space a little too personal. Where we are, there is never enough darkness to see anything, especially what's right in front of us, but I can see you in this darkness. In the dark I see the remains of you standing in the darkened corner of a dead house. But I will not steal, I do not do that, steal that is. You know what though, I'd like to get back to that darkening corner, where you are standing so wetly and darkly, but it's gone. There are no corners to cut, no attics here. As you know, Dead Houses are no more and there are no more houses that are dead anymore. I want to return to them. Even though they ate them all and yet the stars are still hungry. Maybe you shouldn't look at them like that, just a thought. Don't squint, stop counting them. Glowing in this darkness, it's the stars that are painting this war. But I fear that whenever I speak in this quickening space when I talk to you, I always sound a little in love with you. I must sound like that. But I assure you, I am not, in love with you, you just feel like a different person. That's all, that's it. Thankfully, I don't have that fever, don't be so gleeful about it though. But rather, it's about you. Every day is about you. It's about you being in love with yourself, it's about you falling in love with you, it shall remain about you loving yourself. So, keeping that in mind, can I still like you, can I keep liking you, please, just a little bit longer till I finish this story, till it ends, till you are in love with yourself again. Fully in love with yourself that is and that is it. And you know me, I never finish a story. Remember, Fridays were always about you, do you remember that? Do you remember that yellow dream in the quiet of the stream? Tell me something little lamb. How can I look at butterflies and not think of you. Don't think I love you but I have always been a little in love with you. Or something stupendously stupid like that, you silly silly aamurusko. What would I do without you? Probably everything. And I suspect, I'll do everything, even better without you. I can imagine. Not the monsters, but all men. Butterfly. Green. We gave up our sun, just like that. How could we have done that, how could we. And in the wintery depths of winter, we ate the Winter too. All our lives we have been foolish, there is no room to sway now. If you really think about it, every day is actually a groundhog day for all of us galoots; where each and every one of us is living a pitiful, small, irrelevant, meaningless, little life. Tiny. Over and over again. Every single day. Until we are all dead. And, lemme tell you something we've have been lied to, they lied to us man, they have duped us, we have had been had. Deservedly so, because we are all stupid assholes, for we never use our rather amazingly problematic noggin. Death is the primal release. It is the ultimate exit. You can fuck only to conceive, but me? I'll free. I chose to be happy. Death is not an aberration. It is the only way we get to live, to get out of this mess alive. All our sufferings end when we do, no more pain, no more this. What a cult, we are stranded here, with no aid coming, and we are still fighting, why all the cold conflicts. We are on a rock, all alone and by ourselves, what don't you get about that. Such a small rock, barren and angry, so aggressive. Floating around in a limited nowhere. Oh, how violent we are to own our shadows, how we must stop. Oh we must stop being so violent to our own. Now. You have to understand something, all the madness is not locked away in an asylum, it is in us. Magic of each other is not enough, which is fine, that magic is dwindling. There is no mystery left to anything. So it isn't much of a mystery that there is no story behind this story. Only a girl. Just her. Which isn't a mystery. Which isn't anything. But we are fixing to find out anyway. We have been made to fight for what we do not believe in anymore. That, that cannot be forgiven, there can be no forgiveness for that. How do I know? Well, I'll tell you. In a small corner of the night, in the dark, I saw a part of the moon, the side of it that is not there. Quickly, I locked it away at its request. I could have been better, I could have been more focused, I shouldn't be here. I am not here. Still, it is just a cat, said the thing that isn't the cat. In the night, around that corner, I finally found the blessed womb that's not blessing me. I found the broken ribs, we must abandon that arch, that maddening curve half submerged in water, and those fertile, fertile feet which I kissed. That tasseled belt around your calico dress, I must undo that string spun from the hempen rope that's begirdled around your waist. I shall undo the strap and help you take off your calico dress and the weakened womb I found therein the darkness? Within I must lay down and rest. I don't think you have quite forgotten how to love a book, not yet anyway. I would say you have been real enough for me, but what you have made from your insides wasn't. What you fashioned, nothing fancy, from your own body wasn't real or enough. See, an ending doesn't really end anything. But you must want it and as soon as you did, that was the end, of you. The thing is, it must be beautiful, your end and you have to be better than your ending. You couldn't do either. It's all about the endings. I don't really have any gripes. Just that. And it is not about the monsters, just the ones we couldn't make. You weren't blind enough to see the truth. That is why you are a ghostly thought barely haunting me now. The hint of a womanly smile, that ghoul in the darkness, silhouetted against the doorframe, that's you. A smile, a hint, a woman, a knife, a ghoul - all you. Every risk and all the dangers are female in nature. So close. This close to darkness, do not ruin this song for me. Rain. Finally, here is a song you can tremble to. Here you go, festoon yourself to this song and I will stay. This is harrowing, but it's my surrender.

I gave you all the ingredients except joy, then handed you what you needed, what that is you don't need to know, still you used your heart as a flint. Making a fire of your own, you inhale my chaos, sucking in deep all the mess that's mine, pulling palls of smoke from me, all the wet dark matter from my mind now yours. Then you exhale settling me back into my world pacifying me.

Words. Or maybe a kiss, that's made up of more than just words but within words. It's a good thing we were talking about cashing in rainchecks and exchanges for dry wordlings. Because I always write like I am being grazed by you. The world that you just gave me, I don't want it. I am more interested in you that's more than just you. Music. It's as much about slipping into a song as it's about slipping into you. Sip from the rain. And why not, I have to sip something while I not write tonight, while I don't work at all.

Everything is so loud now, everything's got an extra dimension. The night stretches on, the shadows are getting expansive, the stripped trees taking up all the space and everything else is getting smaller and smaller as the last dregs are being drunk.

So, pour in more coffee, refill it, top off my cup. The stars are lonely this night, still I must sip. All that I need you to say, I have written most of it, but not all of it.

I know, I deliberately left you to fall by the wayside, but I want you to keep waiting for me, it's kinda becoming.

Look around you. All that you see is kindling. Sprigs not dry enough is no longer my concern;

I am not coming back.