On days, my heart is a wreckage of Hiroshima and my pulse, echoes the final goodbyes of torpedo bombers in the battle of Midway. I cannot speak because my mouth is clogged, as if someone has force-fed me shards of the broken wind chimes instead of Cheetos for dinner.
My mind is playing a virtual reality horror video game at a volume of 97 and my head is heavy as though I took a bath in the tub of jägerbombs. Those days are the worst you see, too feel too much, too excessive. Too extreme like the final episode of a series you binge-watched in a day, like a tribal dance of vertigo, like books without margins, like a mirror maze overflowing with furniture.
When the world is a dystopian novel and you are no Margaret Atwood heroine, how do you breathe? How do you undress your masquerades and carnival camouflages and allow yourself to be vulnerable, to make an exhibition of feelings willingly for a society of voyeurs?
Even if you survived the cornucopia bloodbath at the beginning of the Hunger Games, you are unarmed and baby, the world is a cannibal with scarlet hands and sinister smiles waiting to devour the feast of your existence.
The gravity-heavy exhaustion of fullness seeps in each and every cell of my body as I gift my body to Atlas. The crushing force of the weight of mortality hits me and I receive a return gift from Atlas, a backache to last an uncertainty. I hate being too full and right now, my heart is ringing the bells at the yearning o’clock during the witch hour and I yearn, I yearn to not be too full, to not be too vulnerable, to not be a prey.
My beloved once asked me, “Why don’t you see the glass half full and not half empty?”
And I wish I could tell her that empty spaces are so damn important, it is survival, it allows you to breathe. It embellishes the fragments of your soul with the force of gravity, it lets the parts of you shimmer in the moonlight, it lets those fragments be. Emptiness allows you to clean, to organize, to declutter the VCR of memories hoarded in the kaleidoscopic galleries of your mind. Half-empty is always refillable, maybe there is optimism in false pessimism.
On days when I lose the video game and let parasites make a shopping mall of my house. I plan. I strategize. I try again. I try again because I am a sore loser. I try again because the game is addictive. I try again because I am my only weapon against the cannibal world.
And I succeed. I succeed to make my mind a home, to treat my existence-ridden body with liquefied rainbow herbal drinks, and live in my head again without brimming, without overflowing. I bask in the warmth of the fireplace in my mind, reminiscing the memories on the mantelpiece. I allow myself to breathe.
I allow myself to know it is okay. It is okay to be vulnerable, to exist in the lightest and the most comfortable of sundresses and not in the heaviness of carnival masquerades and paranoid cardigans. It is okay to be vulnerable. I am okay. Unpopular opinion but emptiness makes you value vulnerability more than feeling too much does.
I am okay because I noticed the light hit on a boy’s face, the one who always chooses the window seats. Maybe the world is not just made of scarlet hands, but also of golden faces.
I am okay because I see this girl taking a deep breath before she opens her Pandora’s box of passions and rambles about every damn thing to me. Her smile reminds me of a World War 2 woman whose passions and ambitions were burning more than the bombs that left her homeless.
I am okay because I saw people making homes in Scotland for rainbow children, because I saw a woman complimenting another woman in an airport restroom even though her mascara was soaked with tears.
I am okay because my grandmother, a garden witch makes flower crowns for injured baby birds. I am okay because the stoic face of my dad lights up like a 90′s film when he hears his favorite black and white movie songs on Spotify.
I am okay because people leave me kind and sweet anonymous messages on Tumblr even though I don’t feel that my body and soul are a childbirth of art. I am okay because my friends give me a look that says we are with you even if you have carved a coffin for your emotions and given yourself a lifetime of trust issues. I am okay because I hug myself too tight when this tattered world shows kindness to humanity.
And on days, when my heart is a wreckage of Hiroshima, I will remind myself that when scientists said nothing will grow on Hiroshima for 75 years, red canna flowers started blooming a month later. There is hope in emptiness, there is hope in vulnerability. I am okay. I will be. The glass is refillable.
//”Refillable Glasses and Empty Spaces”// Enigma
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Picture Credits: Google Images