Monday, 14 July 2014

Take Your Clothes Off

Lying down on the cool marble, resting against the foot of his bed, he reached for his laptop.
It lay in a corner buried under a tumble of duvets, gym shirts and sheets. But the letter to her had already started in his head, he'd email it later.

This doesn't have a beginning, because I can't recall what ours was.
I'm livid and want to write you the most vicious love letter that was ever written. 

Love's always been, a bit mad, hasn't it? Violent in its presence, abusive in its silence.

At least we never whimpered, I'll give us that much. 
We laughed too loudly and too often, willing the world to test us. And man, it did just that, systemically. It wore us down thin with a simple lack of tragedy.
I wish I could tell people that your father hated me and our families threatened each other bloody murder. Tragedies are easy to deal with, they follow a predictable arc- great, familiar sadness always leads up to messy joy. But no, our undoing was the everyday nothingness of everything.

I want to put it all in words right now, but my hand is shaking, the computer is too far away and the accounting of it all jumbles itself in my head. Accounting's important, I'm a Math guy. Everyone needs to know what and how much they did- not more, not less.
And anyway, I'm reminding myself to not think about your eyes, they make me want to rip something apart. The way they always rested on something far into the distance, challenging life to present itself to you. 
Why didn't you just stare at the coffee in front of you, or play with your hair, like a normal girl? What made you believe that you were special, so obstinately assured of everything you “deserved”?
Why were you always so afraid to be normal?

Like you were holding some stardust in your tightly clenched fists and were afraid that the world would beat it out of you if you relaxed and let yourself fit in.

Your white-knuckled, stardust-clenching fists, your distant gazing eyes and the steady beat of the blood and resentment coursing through our veins-- I want to scratch all of them out of existence with the tip of a sharp, bloodied pencil.

What is it about epic love that feels like you're invited to perform on stage and your first act has to be to take all your clothes off and walk into the crowd?

No wonder lovers are crazed, manic-eyed, clenched-fists, scared, violent jerks.
In a savage fit of hormones, they promise to commit and to take their clothes off for each other, for life --
Hi, I love you. I promise never to dress again. So you can really see me, understand me and love me. Ok?

Can you imagine picking out groceries with no clothes on?
Happiness is distracting, but when there's none even a simple draft of breeze can slice straight through and shatter those bare bodies.
Of course, you're going to be angry all the time, you poor, scared babies. You're naked.

And thats's harsh, at any age.

I'm mad at you. 
Mad at you. 
Mad at you.

I expected you to find solutions and figure things out. I wasn't going to do it, but that didn't mean I didn't want you to. Except your idea was to give me a speech about life and exploring chances. You sad, idiotic girl. No one bets on adventures and hope. Your foolish head of Bukowski and grand plans has let you down now. Or soon it will. Real life is what we were: messy, frayed at the edges and so sharp that your bones can be tattooed with paper cuts if you're not careful.

I remember you going on about some things to do with your feelings, your dreams and the sadness you were carrying around. I don't remember it clearly. I'm not sure I was really listening or that even if I had been I could ever truly understand you.

All I recall is sitting opposite my girlfriend, eating dinner at a dimly lit restaurant where the waiters wore bow ties and jeans. Somewhere after my fourth slice of pizza, I looked down and suddenly I was the only one who was naked.

You'd put on a shirt and jeans and I hadn't even noticed.
I'd been too busy trying to pry your stardust-clenched fists open.

He picked himself off the floor, knowing he wasn't going to email this letter. It's hard to remember how to unbutton a shirt once it's been placed on.

He logged in and posted a selfie instead. #instapic #faith #happy #loveisasmile #instadaily #blessed.

                                    (From this gorgeous art series here)


  1. This is nostalgic and so familiar in strange ways.

  2. Thank you :) I guess most nostalgia is familiar and unwieldy.

  3. Haha, yes. I didn't quite articulate it right. I meant this is familiar in a nostalgic way - I would have totally related to this post/written something similar a few years back. And strange more so because it gives me an insight into you, Kakul!

  4. I chanced upon this through a comment on this post by a common friend and being a stickler for tragedy and romance (;) ) , I decided to give it a read. This was fantastic! Keep it up.