Never shutting up about the comfort attached with the lying on floors



The Abandoned Woman, Female
Blog Posts:
happy funerals

the floor seemed wonderfully solid. it was comforting to know i had fallen and could fall no further (sylvia plath, the bell jar)

look at you romanticising even your falls, the floor and you only laugh in return, back against the marble, head swaying to the sound of the tv thinking if you stay long enough, you might melt and end in this puddle of fluorescence. and i keep making the same promises everyday, saying the same words over and over again to the point i still find myself praying for the things i already have. she asks me to come and sleep countless times and then comes herself and it breaks my heart because how could someone else care about my sleep so much. what world holds this much affection and hate in such abundance.

to me you've always been a lone shadow behind the curtain across the street, twirling to your favourite song. even when i see you holding your head in your hands and smashing plates. maybe the reason why we try to ignore a stranger's grief so bad is because we cannot fix it, we cannot make it better. and i assume and believe false visions because at least in them, you’re happy.

i whisper all my secrets to float in the air, the ficklest of all the four elements. it rains and the car's batteries die and you're drenched and i read someone saying that their dad became a shoemaker because they buried their grandma shoeless and for someone who wants to write all the damn time, i struggle very much to name this softness pooling around me.

we play new year's day and hold onto september like it could be our salvation. you look away when she sings please dont ever become a stranger whose laugh i could recognise anywhere and i keep writing my silly little essays oblivious to all these sounds of closing doors and goodbyes.

on some days, my hollowness wears a silver dress and stands in the snow with her arms open wide. some days this hollowness looks so beautiful, i almost fall in love with it. but then again, we have a habit of falling for every dying wretched thing and i know better this time. i turn away from all this shining glass in my garden because as long as it gleams, it shreds my skin apart.

you stop twirling and she gets up from the floor because finally realises the ground would not envelope her this easily and fills the silence with her favourite reality show and my hollowness gives up and sits inside because the snow has started melt and i buy new shoes, forgetting about the funeral of your laughter because the world moves on and grief slips into cheesecake happiness and you ask what art is there to make when there's no tragedy but only sheer desire to carve something and everyone answers that it's okay if there's nothing to write about. sit next to your glee and make it home even if it's not art. lightyears away, a star dies and a rover’s signal comes alive again and he finds closure after forty-one years and you sit in the sun and i have a happy dream after ages.

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