A Confession and a Continuation: Day Eleven and Day One

The Eleventh of April, 2018.

There is no reason to start today. Therefore, I shall.

I wrote those two lines just after midnight last night, because I’d had enough of nothing. Then, almost as expected, came the ringing call with the last syllable of my name draaaaaaaaaaaaawn out, for the seventh time in twenty minutes, from the living room. My father, summoning me again, to hand him a black pen from the table four feet to his left.

The reason I stopped writing. The reason I stopped ‘stopped writing’.

Over the last year, the frequency of my posts has slowed down. The longer I am at home, the lesser time I am ‘alotted’ for myself. The nearly overwhelming feelings of uselessness, stagnation, and mental decay I struggle with, while being told how useless I am, what a failure I am, all of these words, have been taking large bites out of the words I wanted to write. The words I am kept being pushed back, and back, and further back, till they stopped trying to come out.

I stopped writing, because I couldn’t. I stopped trying to write, because I couldn’t. Even that little time of me for myself, was taken away. August became November became April. I don’t know what I have done these last few months. It was probably nothing. Because these last few months, I have felt nothing.

I have been a nothing. I think I am a nothing now. When not a complete nothing, at least a little nothing.

I turned twenty eight. I resolved my citizenship issue. I studied for exams I won’t be writing. I played surrogate housekeeper and peacemaker and resident doormat at home. I did what  I always did- take blame. Take responsibility for actions that weren’t mine. Handle the mood swings of the people supposedly my elders. I played nursemaid and resentful grateful. I played parts and roles and forgot my face when I slept at night.

This time last year, I was a doctor with no country to belong to, and no civil rights to speak of. I have to wonder, which the more nothing was. The one where I didn’t belong, and was? Or the one where I belong, but am not.

One nothing is not like the other.

One nothing was emptier.

I woke up yesterday afternoon. I was walking to the supermarket, and I stopped on the sidewalk, holding eggs and a liter of milk, and I woke up. I could feel cobwebs fluttering in my mind, regurgitating uninspired remnants of something I wish I’d written down, even if it was only some angry words of choice. Words, as it turns out, are important. I stopped speaking and that didn’t matter, but  I stopped writing, and I forgot how to breathe out. It was choking me. I woke up yesterday, and I exhaled. I sat down last night, and wrote the two lines at the top of this page. Then I was called away. Like I was called away in this moment, to call someone up, when the phone was next to him. The difference between today and every other day before this, at least in the last six months, was that I came back.

Because not writing had been hurting me so long that I’d stopped realising the source of this particular pain. Because I am my words, and maybe that’s the only existence I have, the only trace I’ll leave behind in a world where I am told that I AM NOTHING at least twice a day, where I’m so inconsequential, that I’ve taken to feeding crows for some company. I was staring at the calendar while writing checks for my father this morning, and it dawned upon me that ten days of NaPoWriMo had passed already. This is the first year that I missed it, since I started blogging. But not in its entirety. Not just yet.

This nothing’s still got something left. I warn you that it’s old. It’s everything I’ve said multiple times before, but I will say it again, even if only to say it.

I will not stop saying it. Even if takes a calendar and a dim reminder for cement bills to be paid on the fifteenth of April to do it. Every time that I forget, I will remember.

And I will write. Even if I’m writing old nothings, I’ll write.

A Little Nothing     

I am a Nothing,
or so I’m told
A waste of space that’s
twenty eight years old

I’m a big Zero
They like to repeat
I’m worth less than
the food I eat

They call me buffalo
They don’t use my name
I don’t mind anymore, I
answer just the same

My mealtimes are totalled
in calories
I’m given a thousand more
than necessary.

But like a good girl
I clean my whole plate
Wash everyone’s dishes
but not my own face

I wear wrinkled clothes and
don’t comb my hair
So that men don’t notice
a woman’s even there

I keep my voice down
I act like I’m dead
I’m quiet and bitter
I’m words in my head

I’m a little nothing
short and stout
Here are my fingers
Here is my mouth

Hands longing to be held
Lips that no longer kiss
Rusty rhyme and stagnation
A throatful of risks

I’m a little nothing
As I’m often told
An ugly little cow
forgotten fourfold

They like to pretend
that they can’t see
Except that I know
They’re afraid of me

That I’ll walk out
That I’ll realise
My chains lie in pieces
I’m in sight of my prize

I keep my head down
I work, and I watch
One day they’ll fall careless
And I’ll be gone

And I won’t even care
If they never see
I was and always will be
Something
Something free

Yusra
11.04.2018

Day Eleven of NaPoWriMo. I won’t stop writing.

I love  you all. ❤

-Yusra

Advertisements

All Of Us Pagans Cry

I am seeking, again

The restlessness shimmers

under my skin

I walk in the sun, reflective

Look at my hands- they darken

As the heat of realization

effectively

Beats every frivolity out of me

Burnt tongues and

singed fingertips

And the bare, bleached bones

Floating in the meandering Styx

-This is my day

Thus I answer my own question,

Why I seek refuge in the

Nothingnesses, the recesses of night

By dawn, I am unsettled again

The thought wanders stray,

into a vein

These tattooed bands of

radiance in the sunlight

sift

Reality drifts –

The heat hazes

My lips twitch

I shy from coherence

Consummation fades

A lone raindrop falls from the sky

Oh, all of us pagans cry

All of Us Pagans Cry

©️ Yusra

02.03.2018

And Then, I Flew

I’m behind on my words. I fell off the world for a few weeks.

I didn’t fall back on love.

Nothing to do with the paper-heart explosion every shop has turned into these days, but- I love y’all so. ❤️

Hugs and cookies, always

~ Y

Casual Suicides

It took one crossed line

For you to point a finger at me

And for me to see

Bitter, bitter words

I left blood on the switchboard

It didn’t matter, I’d wipe it the next day

Along with the rest of the blood stains

Bleach works, they said

So I drank it. False advertising.

It burned like a bitch, gargling with acid

But it didn’t do much cleansing

The blood darkened and my tongue ate away

The slash across my face wept for you and

My lips champed

My teeth gnashed

The gash bled, the blood stayed

It wasn’t fair then

It isn’t now, not even tonight

The dawn blossoms as the blood blooms

Bony wrists caving inwards, contrite

Apologetic for too many memories

Arms wearing ropes like bangles, discreet

I healed, your fingers knew it too

And then you left your voice to probe

The weakest inches I showed you

Such bitter, bitter words

They taste good, they taste like you

I laugh for them, I’m happy

I’ve learnt to dip my nails into

whatever pain they sent me

Bleached throats and raspy words

Make for a velvety apathy

I’ll swallow it all,

Sweet or rusty, salty,

I’ve had so much worse

I really should buy something stronger

For those fucking stains on the switchboard.

Casual Suicides

©yusra

23.01.2018

.

.

.

.

.

I’m not anything. I’m just angry. It was just last night. And today. And maybe a little, tomorrow. It’s been a confusing few days.