Black.

When you dip her in the middle of the dance floor, it is the color of her dress. When you take a walk together, It is the color of her long hair shining beautifully under the sun, making you want to stare at it forever. When you're feeling down and miserable, it is the color of the shirt you like to wear. When she hides that shirt away from you and buys you another red one, It is the color her playful eyes twinkled promising you that the dark days are over. When you see her in the bedroom with another, It is the color of the screaming voices in your head telling you you shouldn't have believed her.When you punch the wall with all your might, it is the color that forms your bruises. As she chases after you, it is the color of her Mascara stained tears. And It is the color that is slowly eating away your soul, as you head out to buy a new black shirt.

I am no one's 'Rhythm and blues'

Disclaimer: pointless shit ahead.

My life is not okay, but I am neither happy nor sad. Not so content, yet not dissatisfied. Moving by the power of inertia, just going with it. Not fighting back, not taking control. Not even moving. Nothing. Naturally I started thinking when my breakdown will happen. I mean, not every numb person is destined to have an emotional breakdown, but being the melancholic bitch that I am, I knew it was bound to happen soon. I'm incapable of disregarding shit for long and that is something I'm sure of.

Don't expect an extra dramatic climax where I break a mirror and cut the insides of my wrists using the shattered pieces of glass. No. I am more of a consumes-massive-amounts-of-fries-at-4 am kind of person when things get ugly. but bear with me anyways.

I was in my room sprawled across the bed with my headphones on, the usual. When the shuffle of my music player started playing a remix of John legend's song 'All of me.' It was not really a remix, they just added flawlessly played violin in all the right places. I never really paid attention to that song, it was the kind of gay tune- and by gay I mean happy- but the sweet sound of the violin kind of made it hard not to listen. John Legend was screaming his lungs about his lover and how she was his muse and other cute crap then BAM I was in tears. I was crying like a madwoman and saying 'I just want to be happy.' I didn't know what was happening and I definitely didn't expect my breakdown to be triggered by a John Legend song. Who knows? Maybe it was the violin!

I didn't cry since my dad passed away and the fact that I was screaming about being happy lingered a while. It hit me that I am not as fine or numb as I thought I was. The way I'm living my life is slowly drowning me. I detest being alone. I'm consumed by being irrelevant. I'm not productive. I'm turning into a zombie. I loathe being whiny and boring. I am definitely no one's 'rhythm and blues' and no one wants me to give them 'All of me.'

My problems seem petty, I know. But my constant blues isn't. Not looking forward to anything is not a walk in the park. Not having anyone to express your fears to is sad. Being alone most of the time is awful. Not reaching your full potential is destructive. Living in a city where you can't be yourself is maddening. Walking in my shoes is painful.

I don’t know why I'm writing this or where I'm going with it. I just thought writing about my first breakdown in two years would help me deal with it or at least understand it.

I don’t know.

P.s: Maybe it'll make you cry too

Thoughts

My fingertips are aimlessly hovering over the keyboard. Wondering what I could possibly write. The lighting is perfect and the music is amazing, yet the pages insist to remain blank. I could keep on typing lyrics just to fill the pages, maybe somehow I'd feel less crippled. I've never had trouble with writing before. I was always able to write, even if i sucked, even if i made no sense. I still wrote. Writing always made me feel better about my problems, about my life, about myself, about everything as a whole. There's no specific explanation, really. Writing just made me feel better. So whenever I had this pang in my chest, this prominent unhappiness that attacks you out of nowhere most times, I would get a pen and some papers and i'd write. That's how I dealt with things. Sometimes I'd write a sad poem so the sorrow would gradually seep through me and into each word I write, and sometimes i'd write a long colorful story about a girl who has it all. A happy, confident girl that has everything i ever wanted. And the possibility that I, maybe one day,
 will end up like her would bring temporary hope to my desperate, worn out soul. But either way i would successfully get rid of this suffocating feeling and only then I could finally breathe again.

But this time it's different, it's not just one pang that I feel in my chest. It's not just one disappointment that i've had to endure, not just one problem that I face. So much confusion, so many feelings bottled up all at once, ready to burst right through me. I should have been able to write stacks of sad poems and colorful stories by now, but my brain refuses to release a single thought. This time i won't be able to hide behind a poem or a character in a story. This time I have to write about ME. about how I feel. about how i failed myself and everyone I love.

I am the designer of my own catastrophe. Only I control my destiny. And I failed. I've never known what failure felt like, I've never known what it's like to be less, to be helpless. A burden, a mockery, a failure. But now I do. and to those of you who haven't experienced it before, it sucks. It comes as an ambush, unforseeable and unexpected. You are unprepared and it hits you like a ton of bricks. Crashing against you, knocking the wind out of you, leaving you broken. It's like someone has ripped the floor from beneath you and you are falling. Just falling down lower and lower and never reaching the bottom. It's like something has wrapped itself around you and is constricting until all of your breath is squeezed out of your lungs. until you are nothing but a motionless living corpse pushed to the corner of a room without the right to speak, to think, to object. They think happiness is too much for you, even the air you breathe is more than you deserve. Because when they look at you they only think of one thing: How you failed.

The Girl

Her smile, man. 

Her smile will make you fall for her, and the way her teeth are so unsymmetrically beautiful. The way her eyes glow and grow wider when she sees a work of art, like she has just discovered some kind of a mysterious treasure island, clutching every single
strike of a brush with her fingertips; feeling the colors with her soul, and knowing that she belongs to this. The way she does her hair when she wakes up, and the way she always leaves it as messy as it it when she’s going for a run. 

She has her own kind of walk, the walk that doesn’t disturb you but rather makes you want to follow her,  follow her scent. Her so familiar scent to your nose-tips. 

She will make you want to follow her heartbeats. 
She’s so different; she will make you yearn for more.

This girl, man, will make you fall for they way she stands; like the world belongs down in her hands, though she thinks she’s falling for grace, because of her unwillingly so-called  plans that make her cry for pace. 

And man, these are the things I didn’t know when she belonged to me, the things I wish I knew a while before. These are the things you should know, and the things I wish I cared for; for that she doesn’t care for something more, than a man that is willing to enjoy a silent conversation with her inner soul. 

This girl, will make you fall for silence.
She’ll make you know what it means, she’ll describe to you how it peacefully explains everything, and sometimes loudly shouts everything without a word. 

This girl, will make you fall for your 6-year-old soul. 
She’ll make you want to run all around the park on a very hot summer morning, knowing that you’ll run out of breath and dehydrate but, God, she’ll make you want this; with her laugh in the background, and her untiring shining soul. 

This girl, will make you want to fall. 
She’ll make you love hurting your knee, while cycling around the neighborhood, at places you shouldn’t be at. She will make you understand that, there is so much to live for than to spill out love words and touch the untouched hands of hers. 

This girl, will make you want to understand what’s behind all the theories in her head, the way her brain lets her spill down the words, and the way her fingers slightly hold the brush, striking colors all over the canvas without a rush, and quickly making it look like a manuscript of a movie well written, but hardly explained.

This girl, will make you understand, what it is to be a man, without noticing that she is doing this; because this is how it takes her to be who she is. And this is why, I'm writing this. 

So please be careful when you get to know this girl, 
for that people like her will show you places and take you everywhere; they will make you read novels, poems, and fall for love songs, and sometimes even film-scripts. People like her, will make you want to enjoy this. So be careful while she announces her love for you at beautiful places and unexpected moments, making her own kind of traces so that you could never go back to, but forever  feel them. Be careful because people like her will never forget how it felt when she first met you, but rather your birthday date; she might forget even her own name, while learning the sound of yours. Be careful while falling for people like her, for that they’ll make you think that getting lost is a gift, and being soft is never a fall. 

People like her, will make you fearless, they’ll make you want to fall. 

This girl, man, will make you fall. 
She will make you want to wish you never learned her name. 
This girl, will love you truly. She always does. 
And that's something you don’t want for sure.

So please be careful man, this girl is heaven planned.

She Dreams in Colors. Colors and spectrums, filling her world the way she wants it to be. She hates the world, with all it's pale, dusty colors and cold feelings. She never stopped wondering how all these people are living, and if they're really living or just breathing. And if they breathe, do they breathe the air they want to breathe? Or are they just completing the so-called routine of life because they cannot die or don't know how, though they want to. She never stopped wondering how this world could be another beautiful one, and how it simply could. How this world is underrating the most beautiful things, the most honorable feelings to be felt, and the most perfect little things.


'This world is overrated', she said to herself, thinking about the people that are thought to be living happily, are they even happy? Or is is some other kind of lie like the every-day lies everyone tells. Like that silly little smile everybody's carrying around in order not to be asked how they're doing and then they have to lie and say 'good' though they're not. The smile everyone' carrying around in order not to be asked what's wrong and then they would just tear up, break down, and burst out all they want to say then just be called 'over-dramatic, over-reacting..' and whatsoever society wants to label them with. This world is overrated, no-one is actually happy though everyone is claiming to be.

'This world is so empty', she said to herself. Thinking how many people are filling the most crowded cities, yet no-one is there for anyone. How many people are breaking down, how many people have faced a terrible thing throughout their day, how many people have been through a break-up, lost someone special due to this so called sad thing, death. How many people are feeling empty, feeling 'a hole' and none who feels 'whole.' How many people are swallowing all the things they want to say, beautiful or ugly words, cold or tender, everything;in  fear that they might lose that person . Emptiness. This world is empty, empty from hearts and feelings.

'This world is like a prison', she said to herself. Thinking how many people are imprisoned in their minds, how many talents are imprisoned in those minds. How many ideas, theories, stories, paintings, music, solutions.. and the list goes on; how many of those are imprisoned in minds of people who are too afraid to let them out, because of the world. Because they think they're not quite good enough, though they might be the best. How many people are screaming from the inside with ideas, how many people are about to blow from the bunch of things kept in their minds; because society, people, and the world won't ever hear. How a painting that could show peace is imprisoned in the artist's mind just because he thinks it'll be underrated. How a piece of writing could change the way people think about something, because the writer is too afraid people won't understand. A lot of things are imprisoned inside everyone's minds because of education, because of that line we're walking through, not knowing where we're going or why; not knowing if even that's what we  will be successful at but we keep on moving because society. This world is like a prison, prisoned minds. She hates this world, this empty, overrated world that is prisoning all the things she wants to say.

Red

When you go on your first date with him, it is the color of your dress. When he hands you the first flower, it is the color of your cheeks. When you whisper in his ears, it is the color of your lips. When he places his palm over your heart, it is the color that comes to the surface as his fingertips trail like a sentence that you wish would never be finished. When he tells you he's in love with another, it is the color of your breath. When you smash the vase in the hall,it is the color that threatens you to abandon the shattered pieces. When you collapse to the ground and cry at the top of your lungs, it is the color that pierces the atmosphere. As he stands there and watches you, it is the color of his pulse.  When you look him in the eyes for the last time, it is the fading color of your heart falling to your knees. It is not the color you see when he leaves.