Where the Flowers Bloom
Writing
Zaeem Zargar
You write so little when there is so much to say.
I know the answer to your question—one cries out of grief, for it is love with nowhere to go, and the latter cries out of happiness, twirling in her little red dress.
This terrible nightmare—love. Is this it? Perhaps it will end when the empty space is filled with your presence. When the distance closes and your skin melts into mine. When my scent fades into yours.
Don’t be shy, beloved—wandering brown eyes.
I wanna take your hand and show you the world. Rebel red curls and your empirical evidence for my cruelty tear away at the string, bound by light. It mustn’t be severed.
Orpheus strums his lyre, walking through the castle of damnation.
You tell me love is for the brave, and I'm a coward.
Playing all his love and grief for his beloved to be saved from the confines of the underworld.
(What must I play when I'm the snake that bit my Eurydice?)
Hades and Persephone share a bowl of pomegranates, and cherry red stains their lips in this ashen world. Is this it? They grant him his wish, for all he must do is look ahead. What a terrible condition, to be unable to cherish the face of your beloved. Is this it? Eurydice follows her beloved, her eyes at the back of his head. Crinkling smiles creep up on her face. Love emanates and strums through the string.
One sings. One listens.
(But do you hear me speak?)
Singing and strumming with his beloved at his back, so close to the surface. A loose rock, a silent whisper, or maybe it was simply to look at her that he turned. That he could no longer look away from her. At that moment, she knew of his infinite love in his tear-streaked eyes. She must forgive him, for love had had him turn around.
Why must love be so cruel? Riddled with sacrifice. Is this it?
I imagine them happy.
I see you smiling and dancing, and I whisper, "I love you," but everything looks better from afar. I asked you to be happy in my absence, and you told me you didn’t understand. That you were happy both ways. That my grief never affected you.
Oh, what a lie, cracked by citrus tears.
Do you see these interstices between my fingers, perfect for yours? You told me you were happiest with me, so I stretch out my empty palm to you. Maybe it’s not too hard to find enough space for the two of us to hide.
Running by the awashed beach, splashing one another. Salt sprays in your hair, wet sand clings to the soles of your feet, and you gasp for breath as I catch up to you. You babble nonsensically, and I swim in the colours of your voice. This is my favourite song.
You and I are perfect for each other—never believe anything else. But everything fades and turns hollow, or to dust, don’t they? Even the ocean forgets the footprints we leave behind. (I will never forget you.)
I hold onto you—onto the way your laughter hums in my bones, onto the fuzzy warmth of your hand in mine. It feels—right.
‘Write me something,’ I ask you. Tell me you love me, beloved.
‘The tale reached its conclusion, penned by an anonymous author, devoid of a title. Unread, unknown. No animosity, no romance. Merely an expansive emptiness.
"Why?" Asked so many times, a solitary question with no answer. I yearned for fluency in the language of prose, yet it seemed futile as no one reads anyway.’
I do. I always have. I always will.
‘I claimed to be a passer-by, but aren't we all transient in this world? When we love someone, we strive to linger, to not merely pass by. That was my intention, yet I inadvertently intruded. I just want you to know that you are beautiful, even with your scars, even as blood trickles from your jaws, even in darkness. Without a beginning, we cannot force a story to continue.’ Don’t leave, beloved.
‘So, I acquiesce once more. Let there be no lingering guilt, no lingering regrets, no lingering grudges. Just an end, fading into an unknown field of flowers.’
It’s right here—I see it. The place where the story ends, where the flowers bloom. Come here, come home, little flower. ‘I wrote so much, there was so little to convey. If this is what it says, then goodbye.’
Concept Note
This piece, you might mistake it for a love letter. I suppose in essence it is that, but this was meant to be an apology. A sort of attempt at absolution, an attempt at reconciliation from the person that has now been estranged. They will never read it, it will rot in silence, robbed of its purpose. I’m already getting teary eyed, it’s absurd. What is love? Sacrifice? Longing? Faith? I can not define it, all I know is that all of this is for her, for the only one who understands. Love is whatever she is. This is the truth and tragedy. I’m afraid. Of what exactly, I do not know. Or maybe I’d rather not admit it. I hope happiness floods their life with all the colors in the world. All I know is that I’ll wait. I’ll always wait for you in the field of flowers, beloved.
I would encourage you to read up a bit on Orpheus and Eurydice, to understand this piece better.
Artist Bio
I'm Zaeem, an 18-year-old Kashmiri pursuing medicine as a career. I'm passionate about writing and calisthenics. I'd love to be kind and happy, and I believe I write as a form of communicating with the people I hold dear because normal conversations fail me. I love gaming, my favourite genre being soulsborne games.
Someday, I hope to write a book, albeit anonymously.