sweet grief

loss is bittersweet, it takes away a noticeable piece of your heart and leaves a comfortingly sore vacuum in its place. lingering behind your forehead like a sneeze in limbo. loss is only a word till it’s suddenly real. there is no end or measure or dimension to it, it just keeps expanding, outwards and inwards, spiralling into something that pushes you through space, no matter how fast, or how long you have been walking.  

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Living life. on a sharp slope.

to live life on a slope has an exciting ring to it. And exciting it is.

There’s extra forces you’d normally not have to deal with. Extra forces pulling you down, testing your nerves.

There’s parts you’ll love, and parts of it that make you shake your head.

It drains well.

Slopes give your life layers. Like a loud noisy layer on the front, and a surreal one on the back.

برج های خیابان پایین اندازه ی زنگوله ی بادزنگ من هستند

لم داده روی صندلی پسته ایم به بی ربط ترین چیز ها فکر می کنم

حیف شدن یک جان چه مفهومی می تواند داشته باشد

مثلا آن ها که مرده اند

و آن هایی که نمرده اند و با مردن هرکدام از آن تا که میمیرند تکه ای از معصومیتشان را از دست می دهند

این فکر عجیب خود به خود رنگ همسایه ی چینیمان را‌به خود می گیرد که از همان اولِ فکر من مشغول وجین باغچه ی سبزیجاتش بوده

و این مضحک ترین معجونی ست که تا به حال چشیده ام

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a naked purge – to have a long word with oneself

Sometimes a journey makes itself necessary” ^
It’s on a whim, or in search of greener pastures, or to help bring oneself back to life

You go on for months, or years, not tilting your head up and down,
or turning your gut inside out,
or spiralling your eye balls round and round into focus,

They’re completely out of focus, there’s drop marks and finger prints and dust particles on their
surface, and sand that somehow got inside,

and a broken shutter that opens all the way and burns your brains
time after time,

Your feet have branched through the ground, right where you’ve been standing this whole time
- thinking,

Thinking the thoughts with no end, thoughts that loop round and round and do nothing but
give way to nastier mutations of themselves,

Your legs are covered in leaves, tiny ones you have neglected to shave off,

you have neglected to look at you from head to toe:
the muffled goddess of passion and saturation.

you’ve been tied up, you have been dragged in all directions, stretched too thin into more belly
fat – yes, you’ve learned to love your curves so long as they don’t surpass that term,

You’ve neglected you and everything it stands for,

everything it’s endured,
everything it’s survived,

 and, as comfortable as the elephant has become,


that includes the anxiety you’ve half ass lived your life –
okay, the obvious,
ripe-with-opportunity,
low-hanging-fruit-filled,
everyone-else-thinks-you’ll-be-awesome-at-it parts of your life in avoidance -
in denial.

and you know -deep down- not itching to mingle or brown nose and climb executives is no
excuse to stir clear of their guts altogether.

You’ve secretly blamed the whole thing on the parent-induced diaspora that suddenly dragged
you from your popular, witty-level articulate, proud self into the mute, broken-tongued days
you had not asked for.

The nasty teenage years that were stripped of everything you had come to know.

and it goes without saying you never learned it was okay to be less than perfect, that just made
no sense. Imperfection didn’t deserve a chance. it did not count if it took time.

So you deliberately kept to yourself, giving just enough to get by, not applying yourself but to
those things that brought ‘home’ back, and things only got more skewed with time, as others
excelled – and adapted – and got ahead – and could no longer be told apart from the crowd,
while you stood there, growing stranger by the day – you thought so anyways,

and -at the risk of stating the obvious, or divulging the least expected-
your family dynamics did not help.

Others flipped colors and shapes and sizes blurring right in as you held on tightly and stuck out
like an odd unsuspecting prey shot over and over.

you got left behind with ‘home’ wrapped around you like the blanket you snuggle in year round,

And there would have been nothing wrong with that if mixing and performing and being fast
and high and loud like a dirty butterfly wasn’t something you one day woke up to realize you’ve 
been hungry for all along. a hollow wound in disguise, that vague, constant throbbing like one
of your limbs was cut off, dragging you to the ground, years and years behind.

There would have been nothing wrong with that if you were indeed a true ‘introvert’;
going by the assortment of labels you were convinced your world had to reduce down to, that
is.

You refused to see you as the half-winged butterfly. You were simply ‘introverted’ and those
damn business-minded bastards couldn’t make you feel inferior about it -
except for they did.

So being the ordinary, non-hero that you were, you gave in to the pressure; you stumbled into
the exclusive world of wolves serving the bigger, better wolves. You got back in touch with the
elite in your past, and pretended to mingle with the elite in your present and decided your
salvation lied in mastering their endless, shiny sophistications.

So, you over-compensated and over-accomplished arbitrary things, good things, things others
admired, things that put you ahead of others, sometimes way ahead -

things far from the meaning you itched for night and day. and that’s how you woke up back on
square one, not a gram more sophisticated than your raw, clumsy old self.

then you took up art school, which brought a pulse or two to your dried up veins- though part
time. this took you closer, it felt so anyways, to your calling.

That chronic sense of longing for which you had no real explanation. The sound got closer as
you leaped from one setback to the next, one nerve-racking exposure to another, it was like
torture, only liberating and pleasurable.
One with a vivid, if not visible, end in sight,

one that just felt right!
Unstoried, eventful months went by.

Then, in time, you wound up at this exact point in time, the moment you once dreaded
dreaming of. 

It emerged from a carefully coincidental chain reaction that went off when Sound got cancelled
last minute, throwing you into your only other option besides skipping the term:
Creative Writing.

There it stood, peaking out of the pile of fears and self-doubts.

Writing lifted you off your feet; that you knew well; the thought of it happening anywhere
outside of your shell, that terrified your guts.

Then you simply signed up on another one of your crazy urges, the ones that save and
subsequently destroy and ultimately save your sanity and sole combined.

You’re here because you came to class unprepared on March 26th and ended up borrowing the
Ann Carson journey quote^ instead of your own.
And because you suddenly felt like it was okay to let go.

You stopped being appropriate and diplomatic, it was worth the bare sensation that compared
to nothing else.

As if stripped into your naked soul,

leaving you out in the open,
vulnerable and whole,

Where you will end up next is beside the
point;
Not that you have a clue,

This journey simply needs to keep going. 


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