She Is

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Eyes like glass, eyes like the wind.

The words chase each other, never quite catching up, tearing through the walls and flimsy compartments in her brain. They’re everywhere; she sees them blow in on a sigh of hot wind through barred windows; they float, glittering mica flecks and more poisonous, in her water bottles. They bubble up at the back of her throat, blocking her breath so that her vision flickers white and grey and specks of black, blocking her breath so that she can hardly breathe for shortness of breath and pain and words and she loves them when they come at the right time but this is too much and she can’t keep up and why can’t they just leave her alone?

It’s like she sees everything as a construction of the words that her own mind seems to be made up of. She’s more than the words she writes, I’m more than my words, I’m more than a set of letters strung together to make sense, I’m more than the things I say.

She loves writing. Fingers flying across the keyboard, black Sheaffer ink traced and pressed across white sheet, ink-smeared fingers and black under the nails, she loves writing, yes, she does. But she dances and she plays, she laughs and she sings horribly off-key, she talks and she runs and fights and cries, cries, cries; she lives and loves, and she is not just words across paper and cross-outs and people who don’t exist.

So when words try to define her, when they overwhelm her, when they tell her we are all that you are, she turns her head away, ignores them, makes them go away at least for a while, instead of taking them in and fashioning something beautiful out of them, as she should.

Is it cowardice, she wonders?

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Eyes From Trains

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So there’s a boy. And yeah, there are some feelings. But this post isn’t about the boy, or about the feelings.

This is about the eyes of the people I see beyond the boy’s shoulder. The eyes I see, when I look up from his texts with a small smile, a small smile that slides lifeless to the ground when I see their lifeless eyes.

The eyes, starved of dreams, of the children crossing train tracks to pick up wet plastic, or of men waiting, by the tracks passing by a hamlet, for the train to pass by. The eyes of young women of my age, who should be twittering nervously to friends about nonsense, about things that don’t matter but really do, because you’re a girl and he’s a boy and there are little glances and touches and smiles and things and didyouseethatmovie ohmygodRanveer and ‘haan ma, I’m coming’ accha suno did you know-? But their eyes run lonely, begging for a sliver of a hope that they can’t hope for, hoping for something that they know will never come, for something that they don’t know how to hope for.

The eyes of mothers who rail all day and cry at night, hamara kya hoga, kya hoga, bacchon ka kya hoga, kya karen kahan jayenge aage kya hoga? The eyes of mothers who love their children just as much as ma loves me, but money means more than kisses when you don’t have enough to eat.

I see them, waiting by the tracks as my train flashes by, their eyes catching mine for a second that isn’t really a second but a lifetime or twenty. I see them, bundles in hand, leaning on pickaxes or shovels, squatting on their haunches in a boredom that reeks of hopelessness. I see them waiting for something, waiting, waitingwaitingwaiting for whoknowswhat. Who cares now, because when your days run blood and your nights buried without sleep, who cares about dreams and hope and fairy things you can’t touch, except little girls with dying smiles and parted lips, rich little girls with distant sympathy and troubled eyes staring at you from trains?


Hindi terms:

haan ma- yes ma

accha suno- okay, listen

hamara kya hoga, kya hoga, bacchon ka kya hoga– what will become of us, what will happen, what will become of the children

kya karen/ kahan jayenge/ aage kya hoga?- what do we do/ where will we go/ what will happen in the future?


A Journey In Despair- Part I, by ValyrianWizard

A Journey In Despair- Part II, by ValyrianWizard