Cuts like a knife

Just when you think you are back to being a champion after dealing with all the nonsense life throws at you and the smile just about curls around your lip, you hear life having the last laugh.

And I think my reply to that can only be, ‘Well, okay, you bitch, bring it on’ even as insomnia reclaims me, that awful, hollow feeling in the stomach is so reassuringly back as if it had never really gone, and the mind turns again to literature after the loss of love.

But this post is not about me. This post is about writing about pain and how pain makes us stronger, firmer, and better with prose and poetry. I’ll never forget how mind-fucked I was when I wrote my first ever poem that didn’t really rhyme but had a rhythm that was tense, a passion that was true. There was everything in it, or may be I like it because I was in it – so transparent and aching. (Incidentally, Micheal Buble’s Everything is playing on in my head like it’s looped and it’s annoying and beautiful and painful all at once.)

Why can’t my love-life be uncomplicated, like most other people’s? Ah but, darling, how will you refine your poetic sensibility if it is, no?

So much pain. It cuts you up and bleeds you raw and you still hurt, you still cry, and there’s no respite to be had at all. And you can’t be indifferent; you can’t be vague although that could save you. You know that could, and you know you must, but you can’t.

Feel. You feel so much, remember so much more and time smothers you in the now and the nostalgia. This pain, this ache is so achingly familiar and yet no longer recognizable – no, not even knowing you’ve dealt with it before makes it manageable.

I’d said it before, when I thought it was worth saying these things; thought it was worth writing a goddamned book…

Strength and weakness. Love is both strength and weakness. Especially unrequited love. A strength and weakness. I have lived my entire life loving the wrong man, who incidentally is both my strength and weakness and he gives me wings to fly after pushing me off the cliffs.

When you are pushed off the cliff you can only fly. But how can you be twice dead?

And that’s another thing you learn, ‘Don’t ask how, just be it.’ Be the pain, because the pain, you know, it’s always there. It’s always intense. It never really leaves you. It must be borne. It must be. It is. Even if somewhere you think you are over it. But no, ah, the pain, it must be had. Like Nev says it must. Another soul who’s an insomniac like me, who writes to suit me. Obviously without attempting to. Ah Nev, it really, really cut me up. And I was bleeding to begin with. Thank you for bringing on the waterworks, Nev. (Wry smile).

Blue funk, blue funk, blue funk in unanswered questions about an unknown life. Blue funk, blue funk, blue funk when you know it all but understand little. Blue funk, blue funk, blue funk when you’ve been there done that and still stand tall. Blue funk, blue funk, blue funk, when you cry reading words that feel like they were written just for you.

Ah well then, you bitch, bring it on. I’ll deal with you yet.

P. S.
Sorry about the swearing, it seems warranted. Even if my promise not to, no longer is. (Wry smile).

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About Bhumika's Boudoir

I love to laugh, and end up being a part of high drama and stormy emotion even when I don't pursue it. Being creative, and communicating with people get me going. I enjoy all the good things in life especially those that are slightly risque, and apologise little, if ever, for all that I do. Literature is a passion and so is music.
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