A Clean Wound

There is no way to cut a clean wound
nestled in a body exclusive in a pensive 'anywhere'
'anything goes' pinned up with serenades
like water hardwired electric I see it

your ass
yeah I know
I'm not talking sense
'cause baby my heart was supposed to be here

it's a clean wound see?
Shylock's curry
Antonio's soulmate
Portia's butt
all up some shit
of tangled stupidities

There's nothing like a clean wound ok
better than ecstasy drug
better than anything cute

oh wait
I'm really bleeding to death
ok
which page was I on again?

Swelling

I guess for a long time I had a friend – a best, true kind of friend – whom, I recognized as I wanted to write a piece of writing from my own life which we call non-fiction. I had always had a sense of satisfaction from this best friend of mine – mind the word always because you see I am not using it in its generic design – by always we usually mean something simultaneous and something frequently – but seasoned people know that simultaneity and frequency can vary and that joy exclusive and always to that generic label may not always be wrought. But by always I do mean in the sense that even though it did not take my breath away all the time it did so most of the time. That friend is: the sky.

To be frankly honest, I do not have many friends. As long as I can remember (and this is one place where my memory serves accurately a 100% or let’s say, if we minus that perfection which still has its flaws, a 99.9 or 99.5 %) friends was a subspecies in the life taxonomy I had not read upon with great variety, space or acceptability. In quite brief terms – I was the outcast of my class and one of those many people in school who were rejected as stupid/different/abnormal thus not suitable for friendship. I was always teased and ousted. No one wanted to sit with me. No one wanted to sit beside me. Once a person also stated that if I went to a sanatorium it would better than me staying here in school. I bet that statement was one that was just said and not meant fully, however, at many moments in time it hurt tremendously when I remembered or maybe even a little.

Well, as I had no friends I decided my best choice of action would be to love my own company which I can say was a success. Many parts of me enjoyed me, subtracting egotism in its most megalomaniac and narcissistic sense because parts of solitude do make sense to any human creature. But it would be a lie to say that many a times I did not long for company for I had thoroughly wanted it as one wants water in a desert. However, isolation did not deprive me of imagination or the comforts of a pen. True that the latter being was founded later in life and isolation was decreased by then with some friends at hand.

I must return to the sky for he is the friend I had decided to talk about. She is of different talents this sky friend of mine. To say she is inorganic would be quite insulting and those who believe this to an extremity would never understand the beauty of the sky and it would be pointless to discuss this with them. Inorganic in the generic sense maybe because in the sense that human beings, plants and animals perceive things the sky does not show evidence of such perceptions. Like rocks, stones, water and other minerals it is quiet and unnerving – it does waste and grow – but its growth and waste are nothing like the way we grow and waste. But I cannot think it is totally inorganic as an element of death – I cannot refuse it like that.

The sky can be grey. It can be colourful. It can be glum. It can be quite interesting display of patterns and/or it can even be quite alive with its warmth and blue flavour. The sky soothed me. He kissed me and she resonated into a beautiful paradigm-paradigmless entity of clashing, sailing, homogeneity and heterogeneity. She is quite friendly and open. She is quite vast and expansive. He is open and friendly. He does not have any perilous secrets nor does he be pathologically secretive. She is quite bounteous in her way of sharing her clothes and skin. Lovemaking with this She-He is quite good as the dynamic sex allows you your preferred hetero-homo-bisexualities without judgment.

This definition, this understanding and this belief of the sky came to me after a thought that I had regarding a day. A couple of days back I had wanted to blog about a day that was quite memorable. It was not memorable in the generic senses of events occurring and being so intense that I classify them as memorable – well, as I said, not in the usual sense. It was a day I came back home and did the most normal things I do as I do every single day.

I came back from my university. I probably ate something. I was going to loaf around like I do the entire day. In case you are wondering than yeah, you probably have it right, I am a procrastinator though I do not enjoy this occupation. I am a thesis student who could not buy her books as of yet so, I do loaf around. There are multiple apartment buildings to my right. A few years ago, in actuality, ten years ago when the millennium just began these apartments were not there. There was a normal house and a field cum garden. The house was made of brick and concrete as most houses are made of here in Dhaka. I recall that the house was a two floors shorter than ours. On its roof-flat hair I could see that the wall that attaches itself to the entrance had wickets drawn on it. Children used to play cricket on the roof. When I use to go to my own in-house verandah I used to see flower pots next to the white walls smoky now due to time with ash marks upon it. Sometimes a woman, who I recollected once wore a white sari and probably a yellow blouse, or maybe it was never yellow at all but I want to remember it as yellow – used to be near the pots. I couldn’t see their garden cum field probably due to tall trees that worked as curtains to their own world. That garden cum field had recently been turned into another multi-storied apartment. I feel like I have no privacy. My curtains are mostly drawn. I don’t like seeing rows of windows who also have a clear view. Before there was space there. Air was there. Breezes would come and go. It was an open party.

These fortifications make me weary. They do not provide any clean sheet to which I can lie down and make a canopy out of to rest – my hammock has been stolen by monetary profit and been replaced by the feeling as if jars of thick cloth has been pounded into your lungs. In one word it is hot. In more definite sense it is humid. The air clusters with a temperature. No relaxation. As though some diseased mammalian has decided it would die upon the sky. It’s rising in its death but not like a phoenix. It’s deaths are multifarious and occurs with waves of discomforting heat. The heat paralyzes any vistas. The trees that have seen me grow – who were maybe over hundreds of years old – are no longer a sight to enjoy. I can see them as ruined scenes after a war – embedded into the ashen fires of development and urbanization. It wearies the soul which hops into a cauldron of festering suffocation – claustrophobia is its fire – dwelling deep between the gashes of the flames – those fingers of non-stop combustion of illness.

However, these days the window has become my enemy and the air conditioning his pathogens. No longer do I wish this slide of glass and her arm-curtains to put me into that state of anxiety of feeling lost from air. I surrender myself to the natural views and dominate over glass and the views who love my reign of appreciation: paradoxical states of being controlled and controlling are but in the human creature. The day does not always improve. It does not shine. Summers of childhood had seemingly become extinct. The rays no longer a honey brew but an insane bee hungering for the sting to my lungs. I can see my internals weep. My viscera inverts on itself and coils into a form of reclusive illness. I can feeling my insides and outsides hating those tall mutants who have no originality. Those extremities of clay and cement: who rape the pluralities of nature as he too cries for decency.

I feel lost in a labyrinth of bricks and glass. The idea of such loss of direction creates a death of its own kind.

That day the window was open and I lay still in bed. There was a warmth in my sheets. A love that I drunk and felt intoxicated by. I cannot see much of a view whilst I am lying for there is none to be seen. There is another window – a projection in my own house’s design – from this angle – that does not provide much scenery but it is comforting as it is not an antagonist to my nature. It is not too high and allows me to bond with my sky. I can see it. It looked blue that day. Cerulean honesty. With white freckles. However, I thought it was still humidity galore. I dared not look at the steaming mass of festering heat outside. Dhaka had become a disaster. It’s asphyxiation was imminent and intensely felt. But then I felt the chase of breezes. On top of my mattress my toes were like buds feeling the sensuousness of air. Nostalgia cracked its yolk upon it or was I now the phoenix bird of lost unearthing myself out from the ash-shell of disintegration? I could feel a bliss as the sword air cut my bonds and was my womb of soul growth. I can see this womb cutting the bad diseases of congestion. The sun was hot but it made love with breeze. It seemed long lost their marriage was restored.

I felt like a restoration piece myself. I looked upon the trees swaying. Were they liberated as well? Could they not be like me? Disgusted by meaningless urbanization? Maybe. They had grown too with me even with if they were my elders. Even if they have seen hundreds of years past – there were like my kin – they have seen changes vaster than my own and to them dislike would be sterner as it was more well known. Their hearts encyclopedias to my own one-liner. My zygote body to their whole evolutions. I waved at them. Looking then at those watchful windows. No people there but still my eccentricity is my secret. I had said “Hi” to the trees – my own “Assalamualaikum” I didn’t want others who do not understand to bear witness.

Nostalgic swam with the yolk of the sky. It is a serene yellow mixed with the oil cerulean. I could not see the grand poach of a sun from this angle nor did I try to raising my head up. I only saw my elders dance to the wind but I had taken a break. I was in my usual spot – doing random stuff on the computer. However, I felt the summers of old bathe me. Swelling in me was the breeze, warmth and sky soaring of years before. I felt like the innocent child marveling the trees swaying and getting intoxicated by their dances. It was the vintage feeling again. Warm, lucid, overwhelming and so poignantly true and beautifully elegant. The wind mated with the sun and their lovely kisses melted the leaves of trees into golden-dark-velvet-green entities. The world felt like a known heaven again.

The open window had all of God’s promises.