You need to bleed a little everyday

Vivaldi's Winter in the background - 

As I write this, I write this to you. 

Upon first glance, you seem ordinary. Nothing spectacular about you. Your eyes are shaped like those average leaves that fall in fall. Your nose just a bump on your face that allows you to live. Your lips, mundane, colourless, fragile in winter and your body, ape-like. The only difference being, you can't climb trees and they can't create art. 

This is what I see of you when I first meet you. I see your physical existence and my corrupted mind, before a word is spoken, looks at you and knows you or if I put it into correct words, pretends to know you. It pretends to know the meaning behind those meaningless tattoos and pretends to know about the hidden mole inside your mouth. It pretends to know why you cut your hair short and why you let it grow. It pretends to know why you listen to Taylor but secretly smile with Beethoven. It pretends to know more about you then you know about you. And you look at me, the same way. Fragile, bald, wana-be artist.

We talk about the mundane topics. About the weather, about how jobless we all are and how the government is kicking all the immigrants out of all the countries that have immigrants. We talk about politics, books, movies, music, adulthood, sex, genders, rain, flowers and religion. Yet. I know nothing about you and you know nothing about me. 

We hug. Momentarily. Just a touch of our clothes. Nothing shared. Nothing to be talked about. You go your way. I go mine. We get inside the cocoon we have built over the years. You slid into yours, naked. I slid into mine, naked. You close your eyes. I close mine. A conversation with our minds follow. 

but- One thing- the whole point of the blog- there is a difference between your cocoon and mine. See- 

While you are sleeping. Hidden away inside your cocoon. I take out a small pocket knife and scratch the edge of the shell. The slimy gloo, blood red, leaks slowly through the small scars I just made. It takes me days, months, years to make a tiny hole in the shell. But- I keep on going. Everyday after we meet, I go to my bed, open my clothes and go inside this cocoon with my pocket knife. I scarp the surface and dig into its skin. I rub the blunt tip of the pocket knife onto this hard shell and keep on screeching the surface until the blood red slime covers me. Then, I wake up. Wash my body and come meet you. 

Everyday, you seem, weaker. You seem confined. You seem far away. You tend to look at the wall often and this heaviness, like a heavy set of old piano on the staircase, is carried within you singing a mundane classical song that you don't want to hear anymore. Yet, you look at me and smile. You look at the flowers I look at and point out its yellowness although for you it's pale blue. We talk about politics, books, movies, music, adulthood, sex, genders, rain, flowers and religion. But this time while parting ways, I tell you about the first fear I had when I was in grade 4 was that I would have to go on living without my grandma and how currently, I exist in that reality, the reality I dreaded.  You listen, smile, hug and go your way. 

Again, I go to my room. My cocoon with my now- on the brink of being broken- pocket knife and start scrapping the cocoon shell. Today, it seems easier. Perhaps the wall of the shell is growing thinner. 

The next day, I wait for you. On the same bench, I always have. I look over the hill and the path that you used to jump about on. How your jumps slowly became less and less bouncier until the day you jumped no more, I think. Time passes by. Other people crowd the bench. They talk about their mundanity. Most of them are just trying to fuck each other. I wait while hearing them put words into sounds with no meanings.  I wait. I wait. I wait. 

After the rain hits, I come back to my cocoon. The shell is thin. The walls, eroded. I get inside it. Today is the day, I think. Today is the day I finally get out. Only two sharp movements of the now broken pocket knife is all it takes to tear the hole in the shell. I remove my clothes, get naked. I am ready, laying in the cocoon, ready for me to grow those beautiful wings and fly away from here. Far away where no other cocoons would hold me. Freedom. Dreams. Heaven. 

That night I do nothing. 

The next day, I wait for you. On the same bench, I always have. I look over the hill and the path that your shadow used to fly on. How your shadow grew lighter, I think. The couples run past, again, carrying meaningless conversations and an air of sexual tension. I leave them. I walk through the hill. My shadow darker than before. 

I open the door. Your cocoon lies in the corner, cocooned. I can see you- inside but barely. I can make out your nakedness, your now- light green skin and blue bumps that has been caused by the cocoon holding you in. I take out my broken pocket knife and strike the cocoon. Nothing. I strike it harder. Nothing. I use the tip of the now broken knife, nothing. Nothing scars it. Nothing I can do. You, however, seem to be at peace. Your eyes are closed. Your naked body, calm, unmoving. The cocoon is warm. Safe. 

I linger around you for a bit. The air is cold. I lay my head on your warm cocoon shell. I have to go now, I say. You don't say anything. You haven't said anything for a long time now. I wave goodbye. 

I reach my cocoon. Open my clothes. Get inside it. Take out my now broken pocket knife. I take a deep breath and with two sharp movements of the knife- I open the shell. Something inside me breaks. A large thump, maybe my heart disconnected from the attached organs and fell on top of my stomach. I cannot breath. I lay there for a bit, teary eyes, then I stand up. Naked. I check my wings, there are no wings. I check my body, nothing has changed. It's just me and a broken cocooned shell. 

I put on my clothes and go outside. That is when I realize the change. The sun seems brighter. There is something in the air, maybe flying dandelions. I walk through the street. The plastic bag that floats through the road ends up right next to me. I look at it as it does a twirl and spin, salsa with the air. 

After a bit- I reach the bench. I wonder if you'd ever come out of that cocoon of yours then, I take out my phone and write this blog. 

"YOU NEED TO BLEED A LITTLE EVERYDAY" I start with the title. 

Vivaldi's Winter in the background -