Contention and Content

You asked me “What difference did she make, what magic happened in 10 days?” I used to smoke stars near the window from where the sky is not visible, from where all hallucinations start and anxiety ends, from where a panic-stricken subject turns schizophrenic, and where a tear drop vaporizes. I used to stand there with the support of railing, high and smelly, waiting for the day I will die in love. My biggest lie was the acceptance of reality and the gravest truth, my obsession with suffering. I was a writer; I could draw ink from the pool where I was murdered. You did try to apply turmeric on wounds and on my skin from where it was torn apart, but did you accept that you tore it apart? Even if you did, I washed your yellow off my skin and still waited for the day I will die. But yes I loved you too, all the while. The problem with you was that there was no problem, because you didn’t try to understand me and when you did, it was already too late. And hence, you couldn’t understand me. All you were aware of was the trust that I complied in your case study, which you thought was ‘our’ caliber. My dear, yes it was us. But most of ‘us’ was me. You took it away with yourself and locked it somewhere in the corner of the multiverse, somewhere it couldn’t be found and I thrived for my identity as you questioned my major development in the last years. Unlike you, I will never question what you gave me. You taught me happiness, I will be happy. “Well, I no longer wait for the day I will die.” I replied. – Shantam Sahai