of Shots and Bees

So here I am again; giving it another shot yet again. To do what really? What is left of us? What is left of either of us in this? What am I giving another try for when I have a good life, everything is fine, and I don’t need you anymore? A defeat in itself, it is still an attempt to speak to you, tell you I miss you, put up a reconciliating but hardened face. I have not forgotten all the things that hurt me, I don’t remember all the things that kept me happy anymore; all I know inside is the simmering desire to speak with you which hasn’t gone away and won’t really till I have said my say. Silence on your part is slow poison. It eats into my very being and torments me with its sheer weight so I am attempting again – if only to hear blatant indifference on the other side; at least hearing your indifferent voice would be a solace.

You would wonder why. After all that has happened, after how we ruthlessly tore each other’s selves to pieces, after how hard you’ve have to struggle to be free of the ghost of me, and how hard I’ve tried to get somewhere you wanted me to be, finally resisted, reaching peaks of rebellion. What is the point? How does it matter anymore?

***
I am very defensive, I refuse to bend and acknowledge my mistakes. Still hurting badly, I’ve not forgiven myself over all that I have done – this sheer inability to forgive came out as callous sarcasm when we spoke the last few times before I drowned in a pit of silence. I did not listen, perhaps did not acknowledge that your battle was any day more intense than mine, simply because you were more vulnerable than I was. Love makes us all vulnerable and fearful.

How we acted because of our loves and our fears is over. What has been said, has been said and what has been done, has been done. There is no forgiveness to give to each other anymore (we crossed that stage eons back), there’s only the forgiveness one allows to oneself that’s left. That is the hardest to come by. You are better at forgiving others than forgiving your own self; I’m bad at both.

***
The past months that you haven’t been around, the thought of you has flitted inside my head like an edgy bee looking for its honeycomb and finding itself in alien territory. The buzzing of this bee makes me wonder whether there are similar bees buzzing in your head somewhere. So for the sake of this bee who is looking for its honeycomb, I am trying once again to come to terms with all that happened, to forgive and forget everything and move on with life. This moving on I cannot do if you remain stubborn in your silence. Indifference is such an accommodating balm sweetness, be kind enough to hand it to me.

You see, silence speaks more eloquently of love and suffering than indifference ever will. I’m still all tangled up in your love and your suffering because of your insistent silence. Your silence abandons me to a uniform black pit, with no undulations, no silhouettes, no escape, no release. This pit stretches on and on, no matter how far I walk. There is no light coming in from anywhere, I do not know whether there is an end to this.

***
In this, a sorry attempt at breaching the solid wall you’ve erected between us, a bee is constantly hitting against a glass not knowing whether she is outside something or inside something. All she knows is that she wants to be on the other side. Your silence is the transparent glass wall that refuses to make me reach where I want to. When the bee gets tired, it slows down and feebly beats against the glass before settling on the sill content to gaze idly. I do my work with more freedom, go about life with a certain sense of lifting relief. My shoulders feel light and my hands develop nimble fingers to handle glass paints. I’ve created many glass paintings in the past few months; inevitably all have your name painted on glass. But the black pit with no end drives the bee mad after a while. An almost destructive passion takes over as the bee beats with fresh energy against the glass. I languish then, your ghost haunts me, your voice (hard and unforgiving) cuts into my flesh more deeply over the wounds that never healed and I die piece by piece.

In this, a sorry attempt at asking for a favor, please dearest, hand me the balm of indifference than a tormenting silent love that cages a harmless bee, driving her mad to the point of death.