The Cave of Thought

It was a cold, dark night. A storm raged on with no indication of an end in the near future. It was the sort of night that would serve as a backdrop for many dramatic stories in the millennia to come, stories of bravery, treachery and star crossed lovers. So yes, a fitting backdrop to the story of God.

Three cavemen sat huddled around a fire (yes, they’d discovered the fire, but not the wheel just yet). They were sheltered from the storm by a makeshift cave, a little hollow by the side of the mountain with a jutting roof structure.

They were isolated from their tribe, separated by at least a few tens of kilometres, all dense forests and steep cliffs. They had sneaked out earlier in the evening to harvest some of those strangely shaped leaves that grew in some clearings in the forest. Some of the gatherers had found the leaves and they burned it one night, the smoke was found to heighten awareness and experiences and induce a delirious state of mind.

These three were hunters, and they’d gone into the forests to hunt a wild boar that had upset their settlements one night when these leaves were found and smoked. By the time they got back, the tribe elder had banned anyone from burning them, the effects were too dangerous, unpredictable and uncontrollable, he ruled.

It felt like they were in a whole other world, they said, those who had the opportunity to inhale some of that wonderful, magical smoke. The world felt brand new, the colours were brighter, the air was lighter and it was a wonderful life after all. It sounded like magic and they had to have some, in spite of the warnings and the bans. So, after sunset, they sneaked out of the village and into the forest.

And now they were stuck in this cave until the storm passed. They made a fire to keep warm. When it started to appear as though the rain wouldn’t relent, they decided to burn the leaves.

A few hours later, they had each inhaled a sizeable quantity of smoke and the colours were brighter, the air was lighter and the world seemed less mysterious. Ideas, oh so many ideas were just floating around in the air, waiting to be picked, comprehended and known. In a few thousand years theories would emerge that every idea had already been thought of and everything labelled ‘new’ was merely a repackaging of something that already existed, this story, however, happens before all that and these ideas were fresh, never seen before, brand new, completely and entirely original.

One of the men plucked an idea out of the air, a bright red thought that was vying for attention. He spent a few minutes in a trance, the idea was a little too complex to be grasped by men who had only thought as far as food, water, shelter, safety and sex. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed different, he seemed enlightened, later on, story spoke of a warm glow surrounding his head.

“This world is beautiful,” he said. The others looked up, noticing the large shadow of a moth falling on the cave wall behind him. “Whoever made the world must have had an incredible imagination, and a lot of skill.”

“The fire is beautiful too. That man from the other village made the fire and he isn’t anything special.”

“No, no. The world is different. Hand crafted. Look at all of us, look at these plants, the rain and all the animals.”

The one who spoke about the fire looked sceptical. The other one who was sitting nearest to the fire looked at them blankly. The one affected by the red idea seemed passionate, almost manic.

“Can’t you see it? It was made. Each and every bit. Sculpted, planted, watered, nurtured. Everything bears his signature.”

“His?”

“Yes. The creator. The all-knowing, all powerful being that made you, me and the boar we killed. I don’t know who or what it is. But does it exist? Yes it does.”

The sceptic remained sceptical, the other one felt funny (You are stoned, said a green idea. Stones? He couldn’t comprehend). The rain had stopped. They gazed into the fire in some sort of trance, one searching for the Creator, one thinking of a better invention than the fire and the other watching a moth dance near the flames.

“Let’s head back. It’s not raining anymore.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I want something sweet.”

“Berries?”

They would have preferred chocolate, had it been invented but that’d take a while, so they had to make do.

Not Quite Goodbye

A/N: Here you go. Makeshift poetry. I'm stuck in this rut where I write about coffee and wine and occasionally a cigarette, a gender-ambiguous narrator, one or two male or female companions, a relationship maybe, that is either beginning or thriving or dying and exactly one sentence in the story/poem that is vaguely poetic and used as the title of the story/poem(whichever I feel like writing pretending to write at the moment).
And that's about it. Maybe, just maybe I should write something new.
End of italicized garbage. On to the real garbage.
---

She is still around, I see her the first thing every morning when I wake up and the last thing every night before I sleep. I can't reach out and hold her hand, or tuck in that stray strand of hair like I used to.

We still smile, we still laugh. I make tea in the morning. She makes breakfast. She still makes the things I like. I sometimes wonder why.

We don't talk as much as we once did, it's like we're actual roommates now, now that she has moved into the guest room.

She insisted, I tried to persuade her to let me move out instead. She stopped talking to me until I stopped trying.

It's been two months. Why is she still here? She shouldn't be. Why am I still here? We need space, or so they tell me.

She attempts to leave every once in a while, calling me a callous bastard. I attempt to push her out, the lying bitch. At the end of it all someone cries. Someone walks out. Someone gets drunk. And it's the next morning. Everything is forgotten.

We want each other to stay so that we don't have to see the other with anyone else. That's a reason people assume. Maybe because it is easy, we don't have to think anymore. Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe in spite of all the lies, a part of me still loves her. Cares about her at the very least. Cares about her enough to know I couldn't bear to see her with anyone else. Not just yet.

All I know for sure though, is that I don't want her to leave just as much as I don't want her to stay. And she feels the same way. And that should suffice, for now.

*

I'm still here. In this house with all our memories. That couch where we'd cuddle watching movies. That bed we used to sleep in.

He still makes tea every morning. I used to like to watch him make tea, clad in his favourite blue boxers, humming a little song as he dusted tea powder onto the boiling milk. I don't watch him now.

I make breakfast for us, occasionally pack lunch. I still make his favourite things, maybe just because it's easier to stick with the pattern.

We still talk, empty conversations, lots of silence. Sometimes fun and lighthearted. Nothing serious though. The word serious screams 'Run!' in his head. Or so I imagine.

I still lie. I try not to. But I do. What does it matter now. It's all over anyway.

We fight occasionally. Someone packs their bags. It's all forgotten once the night passes. Maybe that's how it should be.

It used to be love at one point. True love, even. Whatever that is. But it is not anymore. This had been over for a while, even before decisions were made. So it's okay, I suppose. Very mutual, as they say.

Maybe someday we will get over this and we'll leave this comfortable space we have created for us. Until then this is where I will be.

Stop

Written on 16 June 2015

On my way to the airport this morning, there was a crowd outside a house somewhere near Kayamkulam. The car had to slow down, my uncle saw some kid he knew and called him to the window and asked him what was going on. Or so I thought. When the kid replied with 'Oru pennu' A woman, I realized that he'd asked who died. Thoughts of Mada mada dane, still have a long way to go, floated around for a second.

Was she old?

No, only around twenty or twenty two.

Two nights ago thoughts were of people who are robbed of their lives and loved ones when they least expected it, of how fucking cruel accidents and heart attacks and even more accidents were. And now this.

It's not hard to see why most people are indifferent to or sceptical of the pain of the suicide victim when faced with the pain of those they leave behind. It's their life, really. And their choice whether they want to live it or not, but they've also chosen to take away the lives of anyone that gave a crap about them.

Rumors fly. She was with some guy and he left her, she got knocked up, she couldn't handle failing an exam, she was selfish. Or maybe she wasn't a bad person, maybe she was hurt and abused, maybe she was depressed. All it takes is a second to make a decision and the days following it to plan it. And that's it. You don't get a moment of regret.

It's okay love, it's never as bad as it seems, get help, be happy again. This life doesn't have to be so sad and terrible, there's a lot more to it. A million places to see and claim as memories, a million people to meet and fall in love with, a million experiences. If only someone found you sooner, if only someone has said the right thing at the right time, if only you could see what you have to live for.

It's all a gray area. Sentences float around voicing contradictory opinions. Why not hurt the people who hurt you enough to make you decide to die. What does it take to get hurt anyway, with fragile minds and hearts worn on sleeves. In a few days I'll forget and you will too. The people in this car have forgotten in the time it took me to write this.

All you need is a little bit of love. Or for someone to grab you by the waist and plant you firmly on the ground. A little too late now. When it feels like your world is slowly spiralling to an end, when you want to get rid of everything to find peace, stop for a moment. There's nothing beyond this love, no magical world where the ones who hurt you are punished and you are compensated for your sufferings. Nothing. This is it, this one life. Nothing more.

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