you have no idea how much we as humans are capable of tremendously hurtful and offensive diabolicity; how we impose our existence upon others as though this imposition is our most deadly weapon, and others- they accept it most effortlessly, sometimes to the point where they begin to crave it. At this point, when you have clutched their little, insignificant quantum of curiosity in your puny, little palm, do you choose to reveal your hitherto latent devilish interior, which is truly all there is to your existence – devilish, inconsiderate, dark and gloomy? or do you, as I like to speculate, plague their innocence with your fallen-angel-facade. I know you want to believe there is a certain poetic serenity to your sinister. Don’t fucking kid yourself. I’ve seen you for what you are; almost loved you for it.
And God, have I not most definitely come to love the idea of it all- the idea of loss and betrayal and apathy and unrequitedness and the inevitable pain it brings. Maybe I only crave the pain. For you are the pain; you with your lovely paranormality have embodied this fluttering human emotion. We associate people with certain emotions for they are so invariably conspicuous in them; like when Rufus Wainwright wails-
but oh Medusa, kiss me and crucify,
as though she is all he knows of that which we so invariably and carelessly call love and that which is beautiful; as though she defines his conscience; as though he was born only to feel this way; as though it is a dying wish to, only once (and not more than that in this dreaded sham of a lifetime) love her.
Yes, the night reminds me of you (not simply because of how dark and hopeless it gets, but also because it is only occasionally starry, like your unpredictability), and all the pain in this wretched world, for I have none of my own (which is also to say, I don’t have you)
All images © 2018 Sanjukta Bhowal