Saturday, 17 October 2015

The Basement


Me: I did it. I am so sorry but I did it.
Them: Did what?
Me: I chained her. I held her hostage and then I painted every wall with her body.
Them: What.. what..what are you saying? Did you kill her?

Me:
I wish. I wish I had killed her. But that wasn't to be. 
She is still there in this dark and damp place where few can go to never return.
The ceiling of which is covered by the strands of her hair, fleeting and dancing in a rhythm while some are held together in a sombre fashion. 
The lips on the floor are brown with a tinge of pink but so scrumptious even without the pretentious red the world so craves.
The walls are covered in her skin, with her eyes forming the only windows to the outside world.

But don't get me wrong. It's not just some lustful desire.

I remember I never learnt the meaning of ecstasy till I saw her long hair swirling around as she danced to some music. But if those lose freckles were combed together into a well structured bundle, there was no room for merriment as she let the world know, she meant business.
The practiced confidence would be given away by those quivering lips, with a quick bite in for some gaffes, or just put on some silly face to make me laugh. My constant reminders of "I hate makeup" would be echoed back by, 'but this is only lipstick'. I still preferred the unadulterated brown.
The walks and embraces where her skin would brush against mine in a softness which I wish could be described in words. I was the surveyor of her flesh, constantly picking her up for the bruises and burns she would be so nonchalant about. She has a mole on her right neck.
The eyes would harbour so much, you would be baffled as to why anyone paid attention to her words and mouth. The smiles and laughs would never be as genuine as the deep stare which wanted to let out so much more while her moist eyes could never be conveyed in words. How I wish I could step behind them and see myself as she did.

The darkness within my tomb for her would only be disturbed by the theatrical adaptation of my memories. The one where we laughed the most, the one where we connected the most, the big arguments and fights, the one where she didn't understand anything I said. That night she hurt me...but you know what these all have in consistency? A lie. The lie which shapes them for me- either they are too happy or too sad where she is a caricature of what I perceived the memory to be. I don't think either of us can remember exactly how good or bad those moments are.

Them: You are too deep in her man. You are..scaring us. You are only going to hurt yourself. It's time to move on and get over her.

Me: I am. I am so deep in that I can't kill her..in my memory. She is with me even when she isn't. But I know I will get over her. This room will be locked to never be opened again. The question is...will she get over me?

Them: She has never loved you or reciprocated it. You guys were never even together and now..she is with someone else. So how can you ask if she will get over you?

Me: My love is the air of her conscience. The encompassing element we never acknowledge or feel but the one which refuses to leave our side. We take it for granted but every now and then, we remember it when it swirls like a wind or even worse, a storm. I am the storm which her heart will feel in the fleeting moments of doubt and loneliness. She will never openly acknowledge my love, until it will blow over her nerves and cells like the unshakable storm it is. And if that storm ever compels her to seek this closed chapter in my heart, I may even be inclined to let her in and stay.

Them: You are a fool.

Me: Not just some fool. A fool in love.



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