Kaariigai - Kaariigai

I want to go home, but home is the mouth of a shark. Home is the barrel of a gun. No one would leave home unless home chased you to the shore. No one would leave home until home is a voice in your ear saying—leave, run, now. I don’t know what I’ve become.

— Warsan Shire, from “Home,” Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head

I don't understand family .

Maybe hinged is good.

The nails deep in you

Hiding the holes you have.

As support system,

But what if that becomes a burden?

What happens, when I let the world in,

Rusting and dying

Why should they they carry me around.

Doesn't it make you feel,

Being unhinged is better?

It's easier to walk around with a ghost

Than to carry a empty body.

Should I drop down,

Or shouldn't have seen the world?

What if, just what if ...

I'm not rusting

And it was just the autumn sunshine

And the truth lied to me.

And now am dropping to my death

For nothing but the rusty lies in my head?

Maybe hinged Is good?

She hands her heart to people carelessly.And yet leaves the world outside her heart.

It's not her thick hide,

It's how thin it is, that makes her indestructible. 

How can someone give everything 

And not get anything back.

Maybe that's the 'happily ever after' there is. 

Emotions, I promise.

An attempt to make romantic what is just heartbroken, trying to create something there, when there’s nothing at all. There’s an insurmountable amount of distance between us. In trying to fit every piece that we find in the warehouse into a single puzzle, not only expecting the pieces to fit but to have a beautiful picture in the end. Where does this sort of imagery come in? Was it written? Was it dreamt of? Do you even remember what you dream about? So often getting it confused with old memories What kind of past is that? Do you still have the taste of your caregiver’s meals on your tongue? Lingering like the heavy dark clouds that refuse to start to rain, as if they were too polite There’s not much time, anymore. Let me not waste it on imagery. I have the gift & luxury of yelling out into the world from here Safe, yet somehow firm. Vast privileges given, an impossible amount. An amount that I am, without a doubt, thankful for. Each day, & yet I will meet the same fate as every other that decides to devote their lives to see how deep these kinds of thoughts take us.

There’s a piece of me that can’t help but to recollect how everything felt to me before I was born. Darkness—yet even darkness is something. Something so much empty than that, unbelievable silence. (I do wonder if the next 13.7 billion years, give or take, will go as quickly as the first that I’ve experienced so far.) Is this anything? Is this anything? I’m sorry for asking you, that’s not exactly your burden, is it? Your just here under the pretense to read some lovely words, filled with love, or heartbreak, or something else that has a sort of relatable intensity. Maybe bring you closer to a memory, or push you away from one. So let me go back to the meditation of clouds, or puzzles, let me cheer you up or make you cry. Instead of filling you with the same existential paradox that often fills the head of someone that can’t stop thinking.

Dreams are dreams, you can't apologize for them. Do what you want, just don't make the decision that's gonna affect the rest of your life, based on wrong criteria.