Cinnamon Spoons

Trying to make sense of the world as it unfolds around me, of my ailing contradictions.. of the attachments and detachments. What of those patterns I can trace.. patterns that default the labels they marked me with.. or I marked myself. I wake up haunted by ghosts, of what was and what could have been, of the swoosh sound of loss, of the motion sickness of the past. What am I doing here?

Maybe she is just behind the veil, maybe its not that hard, not that impossible, not that scary. Maybe she is somewhere the noise isn’t as gut wrenching, where the silence isn’t as deafening. Maybe somewhere things are different.

Grabbling with living in non-gravitational space stuck at the borders in oarless boats pretending to govern our modes of survival

Sometimes after I write a word, I forget what it meant. I feel very distant from my writing at those moments. This doesn't sound like me! As if "me" is a graspable entity that I can identify. As if there are parts that are genuine and parts that slip, parts that fall short somehow. As if the words forgot where they were from, where they were supposed to go, how they were supposed to stand and when to curve. I think the same thing happens with my relationship with the world, or with how I see it. Sometimes it seem like I can't read it, like it's written in a language that I am supposed to know but it has slipped my mind somehow. It got lost in the interstices. The gap keeps widening, and I feel disconnected from it, its jumble of characters and the splotches of ink read like gibberish... I take notes in the margins of the parts I don't understand, till the words bear on my back, and dictionaries stack themselves neatly over my head... what does it all mean? The gap just keeps widening and meanings are clipped one after the other.. words fall and forget themselves...

The world is vomiting nonsense and somehow we are expected to move on. Sterilize yourself from feelings, swallow the headlines and do just that

I am having a hard time crying now or writing ... i keep saying maybe its because I am not used to death.. do people get used to death? Maybe its coz am having a hard time understanding how you cant be here.. even if this here wore you out.. maybe its selfishness .. wanting everything to be neat and tidy and your thoughts of dying to remain thoughts and just that.. not actualized .. not nothingness.. coz it feels like nothingness.. it feels like a huge hole has been created in the world .. or maybe my world.. or our world.. and whats left is a gap .. just that.. a gap.. I get angry at people who keep saying.. she is in a better place .. though i would like to think that.. but it just sounds hollow to me .. sounds one of those things that we like telling ourselves. Sounds like we are settling.. is it because I want to believe that there is something more? Something that we can do.. That the world is fucking insane and we need to talk about it..we need to fix something.. I dont know.. maybe I am projecting.. maybe I am selfish.. and want you to have wanted to be here.. even though I most of the time would rather not be... Sometimes i feel like this pain is not mine.. like am stealing it from somewhere .. like I have no right to be so sad.. because other people spent more time with you.. talked more to you.. you left marks all over them.. it feels like am violating some sacred space that belongs to others. I cry and then nothing...

Maybe one day I will write without stuttering