There

I never understood Beethoven, never could fathom Mozart, but that does not mean I cannot have the vision to see past the black clouds and realize these are my last times. I am in his majesty’s royal air force and I am on a plane in midst of a storm, in midst of a war. The hostiles are in their war ships, almost on the brink of invading the island, and my job is to stop them. How? Well, by dashing our planes into their warships. Yes, we are the kamikazes and I am the commander in charge of the 10 plane fleet designated to stop the hostile push forward. We have been handpicked to serve our land, our country. Our families are away from the war zone, well protected, and well fed. I just started a family of my own. Our baby is due anytime now. Well, in times like these when 9 of my other companions have been taken down by the cumulative effect of an anti-aircraft gun and the thunderous lightning  it is probably better not to think of friends and family. It makes you question why you are doing what you are doing. What exactly is your life worth of? Money? Land? The country? A story? What’s that again a story?? Yes, a story. Your kid will know you as a hero. Whenever he stumbles your tale would hold him, raise him, dust off his coat and tell him to get on with it. Yes, a story is what I can die for. Moments after this decision, I leave behind the remorse that I never did what I could have, never understood Beethoven, never could fathom Mozart, and dive down. The black clouds thunder almost in protest, as if its prey is escaping its claws. They send gushing winds to put me off my bearings. They send thunderbolts to remind me how petty I am and their might will not be circumvented. Below me the anti-aircraft gun is sending bullets that are whizzing past me. I am diving and they will not have me. I will defy the god, the machine, all for your legend baby doll. All for your legend. My wings have been bruised but I am critical already. My engine has given up on me. I haven’t. Almost there. Almost there. There.

I never saw Paris, never went to Istanbul, places full of life, yet I know my own hangs by a thread. I am the wife of an air force commander. I lie on a hospital bed, circled by nurses, giving birth to our baby. The doctor in front of me urges me to push. My body has rebelled against me. My muscles are cramping. They are not making way; they don’t him to come out. I am fighting for control over myself. It is behaving like an anaconda wanting to digest something that is crawling its way out. The more I try the more pain I am awarded with. Pain is a cruel master. He wants you to forget how important this moment is. He is whispering in my ears that the time has come. He tells me it is a certainty that I will die and he wants to take in my child as well. He questions me why I am doing what I am doing. In that moment, right then several images run through my exhausted mind. That clash of eyes, that first kiss, that staring the moon hand in hands, that lying in his arms, being vulnerable, knowing you are safe. I come to a conclusion that oh! It is for my love, I will hold on. You shall have me, but I will not let you feast on anything else. I tighten my grip on the hands of the nurses by my side and in that moment of singularity, I forget who I am, I was, I bury the dreams full of life and I push. I am summoning all that is left in me; it is all that I have, for you my baby doll. For you. My body is splitting into half. Almost there. Almost there. There.

I never saw my father, my mother died while giving birth to me. When you are born an orphan, your body rejects everything as foreign. Somehow it knows that there is no one that is actually yours. Your soul on the other end is yearning for company, a Sahara waiting for rain. Every time someone walks away from you because you reject their emotions as petty, you kind of feel disappointed why people don’t hang around a bit longer. Your body however at the same time feels proud that it prevailed. Yet again. It would want to rip every soul apart if it could. This state of continuous confusion essentially makes you a living oxymoron. Sure, I was born with stories, but what good are tales of courage to a torn soul. It is like polishing an apple rotting from inside. What good does it do? I am at constant war. Something inside me wants to clean the slate, wants to start again. Wants to feel like Adam, write his own destiny. But then there is feeling of an alien under a human’s skin. I sit down today with a bundle of cannabis in my hands, with an intention to resolve them both.  As I light it up and take it in, I feel like I am sucking my soul out. Be gone devil, I say to hell with you. I don’t want to do anything with society. No I don’t hate them. I just don’t care. You fight, if you have to. You kill, if you have to. Let me be. As the weed hits me, I loose control, to hell with that body I say. I take another hit. I am floating in outer space now, and I for the first time relate to something. That vacant space feels like home. It is my home. Another hit. Almost there. Almost there. There.