by The Dreamer
she wonders why birds choose to stay in the same place when they can fly anywhere in the world, and then she looks down at her clammy hands and she asks herself the same question; why do you dwell in the same form of sadness? why can’t you let go of the misery that has grown thorny branches that resemble prison bars, pinning down your wings? then she recalls the pain of struggling to set her wings free, the sound of her wings ripping, the sound of her heart breaking, the sound of her breath stopping, hoping for the bitter cold of winter to numb her pain and her feelings. but it seems pain had a sadistic side too- it demanded to be felt.
‘i knew it was too pointless to hope for anything’ she barely whispered, as she summoned the eternal hibernation; the eternal winter, and she puts her emotions, still warm but like a dying out fire, in a dark but safe place, and seals it away, caressing it to slumber.
her birthday fell on 27 march, and it was also cherry blossom day. she yearned for the day when she was ready to welcome spring. the day spring would come to awaken her hibernated soul, to thaw her icy lungs and heart, to end the eternal winter in her. but she feared that the warmth that spring brought with her would engulf her, melt her until she was nothing. at least in frozen form she had a shape to fit in. she was afraid that under heat she would sublime and disappear without a trace. maybe it was better to stay in the cold. it was sadistic of her, but she wanted people to remember her. she loved them desperately but she feared rejection. is there a limit to how much you can love somebody? she asked herself. no matter how much she hurt them or got hurt by them, she found herself far from hating them, actually hoping that those wounds will scar, like burns, because then, people would never forget her.
today she was a feverish mess. outside she was burning up, but inside the snowstorm continued. she struggled through her literature test, stumbled up the bus and pushed back the sourness of bile rising from within her. she was within the radius of the unrelenting sun that penetrated through the glass window but she felt so, so cold.
it was the eternal winter inside her, raging on. on normal days, she would see a stump of a wall that travelled back to her home. she would climb on it and stretch out her arms and balance her way across it. she liked feeling the gush of wind beneath her outstretched limbs. it felt like she was soaring in the sky. and she liked the thrill of being so way up there, where the heaviness of her reality could not touch her. but today, she struggled up the wall, and she took a jittery step forward and her vision swam and she tilted and she watched herself stumble and fall. she fell like the cherry blossoms on 27 march. she hoped it was graceful and delicate and forgiving, but she landed with a loud thud as the wind was knocked out of her lungs. after a momentary lapse in time she took in a shallow breath, and all at once, she inhaled reality once more and her ribs constricted as the cold air froze her inside out. at last, the gravity of her reality would pull her down. flying was an illusion. living was fragile; her soul was heavy.
she lived morbidly, untrustingly, disconnected. she pretended she didn’t care but lived in constant anxiousness that people were out to get her, that she wasn’t loved and that no one would love her. what she feared with a passion was the overwhelming sense of post-joy sadness after a short glimpse of what seemed like happiness. she had a distaste for how it made happiness seem so surreal, temporary and illusory. she would rather the joy elude her completely rather than bringing her spirits up and then plunging her back into the suffocating darkness. she absolutely loathed being so unsettled, and she wondered constantly how it felt to be light, weightless, like a floating cherry blossom petal, accepting of the direction the wind carried it to, never struggling to hold on to lost causes. to just drift. to just be.
she was a soft human being, her bones were made out of dusty lies and her spine was the thin spiral of grey smoke that travelled out of a smoker’s lips. she devoured ‘the unbearable lightness of being’ in a day and warmed herself up with the comfort of its words. and then once again, the despair creeped in, and she fell, but there was no thud, because the pit was endless, and she had completely disappeared for good.
钧 x x
j e a n x x
((the songs that were on repeat for weeks now. i have only been listening to them. they are the best company in the loneliest of days))