Coming to My Senses

Somewhere around my 14th year, I forgot I had five senses.  Trusting only my ears, I lived life believing what I heard.  Words became more than simple units of language, but instead, they created the way I saw the world.  My dreams were made of thousands of small yet powerful words, dancing together…choreographing the mural that would become my life.  I suppose this makes some sort of cosmic sense, considering the second definition of word is unit of meaning.

Coming to my sensesI’m starting to know better. Because the unit of meaning, the promise behind the words, if you will, lies not in the word itself, but in the soul of the one using it.  It lies in the action…what you can see, what you ultimately get.

Yes my ears are tricksters, paying more homage to your soul than to my own.

My other senses are much more loyal, even if I was not loyal to them.  I’ve recently discovered my nose.  Taking deep breaths…cleansing smooth, quiet breaths…sends chills down my arms.  A vessel for the oxygen this body needs, my nose is my greatest life line.

In truth, I’ve always had a sense of my eyes, except that I misunderstood them.  My eyes feel like the sea, with specs of hazel no one has ever noticed.  They busily search constantly for truth. They realize the subtlety in a nervous action, the way a smile hesitates on nerves.  But they cry at sappy movies and remain dry when my heart breaks.  They are constantly trying to find answers, but acting alone in doing so.

I’m embarrassed to say, I forgot I had hands and a tongue a very long time ago.  I got little enjoyment out of the textures of my life. The nuances fooled me. I searched for silk, but felt sand.  Now I try to catch water in my hands and am mesmerized when I get to watch it leak.  I can feel water in places as dry as the desert.  I am thirsty for things I cannot drink.

The madness, I now understand, exists in a place where your senses contradict each other.  When what you hear is not what you see.  When the salty taste of his skin reeks of her floral scent.  I imagine I had a choice, go mad or turn them off.

I turned my senses off and rested on my ears.  I believed the words I’m sorry more than anything else I’ve come to know.

Lying dormant for so long, I yearn for a life where I taste and feel my way along the path. Perhaps my coming to my senses journey, means walking through life backwards for a while, allowing my hands to smoothly sweep away my footprints, because I no longer think getting lost is a waste of time.

And when I’m ready to stop walking backwards…I’ll feel myself forwards.  I’ll become the incomprehensible silence that lies at the moment your senses no longer collide. My coming to my senses journey When the smell of fire is the same as your lovers touch, eyes that don’t turn away, a kiss on the nose, and the words I love you.

Until then, I’ll ride the textures of my experiences.

And I will not name them.

Happy Anniversary

The truth is, we were never good at the big things.  Anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas and New Years stood as comical reminders that we were brilliant at letting each other down.  Today, I’m mourning the art of being let down.

I believe it was two years ago today,  after a particularly staggering argument (the topic of which I no longer remember) that he threw a watch at me and said, “Happy fucking anniversary.” There is something beautiful about getting a watch as a present. As though that person is giving you the gift of time, or perhaps eternity. Somehow this is lost when it is hurled at your forehead.

Yet somehow, I find myself remembering the small things. How we could drift down rivers and never say a word.  How his laugh, when it was real, resembled a 12-year-old girl’s. The way his hands felt when he held on for dear life.

There will be no presents today. No broken plans. Nothing to apologize for, and nothing to fight about.

So I guess I’ll give myself the gift of time.  It isn’t trapped inside of a hurled watch anymore, but swirls around me. My butterflies dance amidst its breeze.  Moving on is touchy, it trips on moments stuck in the past.  I’m hurrying it along now.  Remembering one good thing and a thousand bads.

Yes, we were never quite good at the big things.

The Whirlwind

Standard Armenian carousel, 1930s-2000s
Image via Wikipedia

Time passing is supposed to be slow, yet I can feel its movement on my face.  It’s a cool breeze, the type you don’t notice until it stops.  It reminds me of a slow whirlwind, as though my future is stuck chasing time’s past.  This is happening around me and in me, I can watch it happen and feel it happen all at the same time.

As it spins me, I try to find my footing.  It reminds me of the first few seconds on a merry-go-round.  I’m not dizzy yet, but soon will be. I try to  find my barring, focus on something on the horizon, and wait as I gain momentum.  I’m stuck going slow, but anticipating fast.

While searching for that stable place on the horizon, I swear I caught a glimpse of who I was supposed to be.  She’s different, has hair made of fire.  She’s on the run, swiftly embarking on the journey I forgot to take.

I’m trying to find something common between that girl and me.  Something common in that journey and the one I chose.  But it feels now like the life I never chose, chose me.  A moment of pause to take stock of my life. I never wanted this and thank God for this all at once.  Here I am again…refusing to choose the pieces of me that are the loudest.

I used to think broken things were meant to be put together again.  Pieces confused me, I needed things to be whole. And so I repaired the items and people in my life with glue and a lot of pressure.  I heard once a broken bone renewed was actually stronger than its previous self.  Cracks adhere to each former piece and literally disappear.

But the idea now that I am a unique, stable, whole self is laughable.  As the merry-go-round turns, I see piece after piece after piece of a changeable, confusing, complicated me.  I am that girl with fire hair, and I am that woman trying to find a stable place on the horizon.  I am the future and time’s past all at once.

Catch me if you can.

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