Your Insistence Is Adorable.

Everything in the vastness of space is in a state of perpetual motion. Every tiny speck and every gigantic object that exists because several such tiny specks came together... everything, is moving. Shaking. Hovering. Vibrating. From the tiniest electron revolving around the nucleus of an atom to a huge star in a galaxy eons away. It is all moving, gently and crazily. Silently. And I am sitting here, still; suspended in all that motion. Waiting to be lifted. Waiting to be moved or removed by an unseen force. I am the glitch in the system, the nut that refuses to rotate while the rest spin in wild, silly circles. I am right in the center of a moving world, stationary. Useless.

I can see you, sense you, reading me, following me around. Trying hard to decipher me and my struggle. Putting such great effort in thinking about my past and my future. And I don’t even know about my present. I see you trying to visualize my story, trying to adapt it, picture yourself in it.

“What happens? What happened?” I hear you ask yourself, incredulously, as you turn another page to my story, as you see me running from the horrors of an unexplained monster. Running in vain. I see you crease your forehead, run your tongue over your dried lips, change your drooping posture, so that you won’t get tired. So that you’ll be able to read a little more without interruption. Your insistence is adorable.

You are tired. You didn't sleep all night, you were so engrossed in reading me, thinking about my story and tweaking your perspective as you moved further, word by word. I was there with you, without you realizing. I was watching you enthralled by a story that wasn't even your own. So I asked myself why you did that? Why did you hurt yourself over someone else’s tale? Cry over another’s pain, laugh at someone else’s joy? Why do you sit here, your eyes following me, your mind wrapped about me, when your own story remains abandoned, unwritten?

I've chosen to be the glitch. To stop, to drag on so that you’d become agitated. So that you’d put me you aside for a moment and look around and see what your own world has come to. The ignorance of your own reality so that you can indulge in mine is flattering. But I realize I've been doing the same. Trying to indulge in your story, figure you out while you try to decode mine. I've been trying to stop you from interpreting me, all the while looking forward to your reactions when you finally unveil my end. All the while we've been simultaneously reading one another, embracing tales not our own. We are linked this way, you see.

So, when I see you handling me with such care, adoring the curve of each word, cherishing the way every scene of my story falls into the other, melding beautifully and unlocking a mystery, I melt. I see your eyes shining at my happiness, you cheeks wet at my sorrow, I never realized I became so much to you. And I never grasped how focused a part you became of mine. After all, without you I am just a dying script, drying ink that will eventually fade to nothing. But you never let that happen. You've treasured me, spending so much time with me and thoughts about me when I wasn't even there with you. You became the lips that spoke my story, the syllables were written but you sought people and shared them. And I have come to realize now that I fell in love with you every time you opened my story, over and over again just to share my repetitive joys and tears one more time. And each time when you held me carefully before giving the story to a friend and whispering a loving, ‘Take care of it’.

And I have fallen for you each time I heard your sigh of relief when you once again held me in your hands.

-Momina.

*This piece has been written keeping this in mind: 

Sabotage and Assassinate

Wisps of hope peel away
Opening up the insides, frayed.
Touched with time and unwanted change
Browned and worn out ashen face
Screaming out, yearning to surrogate
Limp hands for attention, wave.
"Don't look away, don't look away,
Fold yourself into the details,
Realize the mistakes that you made.
Whispered secrets, riddles and slay
There are the answers, you didn't appraise".

-Momina.

Story: From the Diary of a Middle Child.

The following is a story, it has no connection to the writer or any other person, living or dead. The work is entirely fiction; advice and feedback would be appreciated, not criticism. Thank you.

-I am simple. My life, I guess, is okay. It seems so. There seems to be less problems and troubles than those faced by others. Sure there are times when life seems to be crumbling down. Its real bad then.  Like the times when my elder sister would slap me right across the face for no reason other than the fact that she was angry. It’s happened more than once. More than half a dozen times.  Of course I don’t go whining to my mom. No, I prefer to cry in peace and not talk to my sister, or try to do so.

I am unusual. Different. I don’t drool over celebs or people of the opposite sex that others tend to find *cute*. I simply don’t notice them and I have no comment on them. Nada. No, I am not homo. I am weird.

I don’t like it when my little brother gets ignored. He is sensitive. It’s his right, he needs the attention. I try to make him feel better, he fails to gets it. But I try.

Why don’t they realize? Life has its problems but it gets better. A straight road is no fun, a curvy one holds all the adventures.

**********

 

-It’s not a joke. Life. It’s not a bloody joke.  No matter how much I try or what I do, she always stands right. Always. Haven’t I always done more for you? You have no idea what she says about you and behind your back. Or do you have any idea that it’s me always reasoning with her, putting sense into her. You don’t know. You hate me. Because she is your first and she’ll always be, right there number one on your list. No matter what I do or how hard I try. I am never right. It’s always them, always her. Why? Why me? Why do I face all the troubles? Even when I try to do the right always. I try not to break your trust like she has. I do not talk mean of you to others. I try to never think badly of you. It’s all useless though. When you don’t trust me because I’ll always remain wrong. I never believed the face that the middle child is neglected. You've proved me wrong.

**********

 

-There is a soft blurry edge to everything. It’s hazy. Everything  looks funny as if each item merges into the other. As if watching through a sheath of heavy pouring rain. As if it’s a mirage. Out of focus and bokeh-ed, forming into bubbles and then tipping out of focus. Moving; side to side. Unstable. They loose colors as if drained. Black and white. Then grey. A big ugly blotch of blurry grey. Getting bigger, darker. Swallowing me up, painlessly. Good. The pills are working.

  ***********

-Momina.

smoked cigarettes

Staring into the eyes of the little girl in front of her, she was abruptly pushed back into her own childhood where these eyes belonged to her; full of fear and loneliness, craving attention and love. 

She stood at her bedroom door staring down into the hall of the great big mansion. The mansion, even though her home scared her; it was too big and too delicate, the opposite of a cozy home. She looked down on to the open hall her eyes skimming through all the people who looked similar to each other till her eyes landed on the one person she wanted to see. There were a lot of people surrounding her but she was nothing like any of them. There was a striking aura around that particular person that captivated the young child. Her eyes followed the figure careful not to lose it, she knew she'd loose her with just one blink and her eyes were already drowsy from sleep. The swollen bloodshot eyes that dominated the pale little face darted from figure to figure as she lost her mother in the party crowd. It was then that she realized the smoke from all the cigarettes and cigars was getting to thick, irritating her eyes and throat. Turning her tiny self away from the body she coughed and went inside, closing the door shut behind her, she opened her window and sat on it, wiping away her watery eyes and looking up into the dark sky she said a little prayer like every day and then called her dear old nanny.

'Would you call mama to come and kiss me good night?' she asked.

'I am afraid she's busy my dear!' the nanny replied gently.

'But won't you try, please?'

'I shall' she said although knowing that the mother won't come and the poor child would drift to sleep waiting.

--

It's late, very late, and almost time for dawn but she's awake sitting on the big arm chair gazing at her mother as if she was a diamond encrusted statue. Her mother though is unaware of her presence as she lies on the couch with eyes closed, smoking a cigarette. The little child doesn’t go near her mother afraid she'll push her into the table like the other day. She loves her but she wants her mother's love. She needs it. She looks at the carpet scattered with ash and ash-tray filled with cigarette butts. Her fearful eyes follow her mother's figure as it gets up and walks away leaving her behind alone. The poor child shudders at the hate she feels wafting at her!  She brings her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them, letting her tears paint her cheek wet. 

--

Time has passed now but the scene is more or less identical. The endless promises she made to herself to not become like her mother have proved futile. She is the same as her mother, hateful, selfish and torn.  And the dear little child with exactly her eyes is her daughter, who even now sits before her with glassy pained eyes and rosy cheeks staring at her smoking a cigarette, very much like herself at a very distant time. It's another generation yet much the same. She has been ignoring the innocence of that child's face and she will be the one to make her like herself. As if hit by a revelation, she suddenly drops her half smoked cigarette that burns right through her beautiful sheer silk wrap that is lying on the floor and her white plush rug, normally she would have not let this go, even if her own fault, but right now it goes unnoticed.  The room is dark and dotted with candles, like every day. Light seem to burn her eyes so she lights candles in the whole house. In the dim light from the candles she can see as the tears slip past the six year old child's eyes. Involuntarily she, herself gets up and stands before her daughter, reaching out and grabbing her hand; holding on tight she gently wipes the tears  with her free hand and drags her along, walking the whole house with her. Blowing gently on the candles and saving that which should be saved, not just a candle, but an innocence for generations.

Momina.