Fairytales enchant us, because they have an ending. Probably a happy one. Or maybe a tragedy, but they end. I wish it could be like that with us. Alas, this is life, and life goes on, no matter what.
And what was a fairytale once, shows all of its colours. You could never fathom the myriad emotions you experience for a single person.
Past the initiation, where everything is sparkling, you slowly descend into reality. You see the cracks beneath the shining surface, you see them as a real person for the first time.
You see that the people who once stood by you against your demons, are now plagued with their own. Maybe in that process, they hurt you once or twice, planting the seeds of venom inside your gut. Then starts the reverse of what brought you together in the first place, then starts the unloving.
The way you fell for each and every small bit of them, new small details about them make you fall out of it. And your heart, the loathsome being it is, takes all of their their qualities for granted now.
Here comes your evil mind, focussing on each of their flaws, watering the sapling of doubt into a giant banyan, Its roots eating away your insides, Its branches emerging out of your chest.
And then, finally, you ask yourself, "Are they really the one?"
This question haunts you day and night, And you torture yourself for you feel guilty, Guilty of the future, because it seems to go nowhere.
You regret the decision to involve another person in your mess. And you cannot stand to take the blame for breaking their hearts, Because being the victim is always easier than being guilty, right?
So you don't want to back out. Neither does your ego allow it. What's the option now?
Continue falling out of love, Until one of you decides to have mercy upon you and walks away, finally ending the nightmare that your fairytale has become.
I know I was wrong. I know I shouldn't have played you like that, and I know that you still love me as much as you did before I engraved the hate onto your heart.
There are times when people don't know what their heart actually wants. There are times when people confuse empathy with love, and there are times when all they really need is a distraction from their misery.
Those are the times when one makes the most condemnable mistakes, those are the times when people stumble upon the paths forbidden by their conscience.
For in those times, we become the most selfish. We neglect the consequences of our mistakes, drowning and numbing our pains through exploiting another poor soul. The one which is pure, the one which has yet remained unharmed by this contagious disease, the one which loves us with the purity of a child.
But I guess everyone has to grow up, and our souls are no exception. They grow day by day as they bear wounds and fill them up with new hope and love.
Love is the most contagious disease of all, for no soul in this universe can neglect the only one truth that there is: Love.
Love is the cause of all of our happiness, and it is the source of endless grief too. And love is what nurtures a soul, through affection and through pain.
Then there's that tiny little spark always left behind the storms, hope. Hope is what makes a person get up in the morning, hope is what urges them to move ahead even if they have to drag each and every step. Hope is the spark of life, and once gone, it kills the soul, if not the body, of a person.
Same was the case with me. That tiny spark inside me urged me to accept you, in the hope that maybe someday, I'll be able to move on, and in reality I thought that I'd moved on.
But love is a wicked, wicked thing, dear. It had planted itself in some corner of my heart where it kept growing secretly, without my notice. I couldn't erase the love blooming inside me for the person who had broken me. I made myself happy, even though...
I don't think I could ever complete this letter, but I do know one thing.
I'm not guilty, not anymore. The vile mistakes I made, I think I've paid enough for them, and I think maybe there is more to come in stock already.
Just know that this was not the end, the spark lives on in you and you'll eventually find another pure soul, maybe to harm it yourself this time.
Maybe then you'll realize that whatever we may want or whatever we may do, every soul has to be wounded in one way or another to grow, and in one way or another, it'll eventually heal itself.
I stop, I stare. At the bottom of my doorstep, There you are. Waiting, wailing, as has been Your life since you fell for me.
I didn't ask for it now, did I? I didn't pull you down into the Wormhole that my life is. But you, like a cliché moth, Came for the fire.
They say fire burns. It is a complicated phrase, dear. Fire "burns" you, true. But fire "burns". It has been burning, All heat and light exploding Out of its wild dancing flames. The wild, the chaos, the death! That is my true nature,
And to watch everyone And everything that tries to come near me, To offer me love, Being engulfed in my own flames is my only destiny.
I see you begging for Pieces of my affection, For some care, for some recognition. How can I? To just encourage you to come further? To see you being destroyed Like the many before you?
Trust me, it's better this way. At least you are alive enough To feel, to crave, to want.
Me, I've been dead since forever. The guilt, the regrets, the self loathe. Oh, you have no idea.
So let it be.
You keep cutting out a piece Of your heart for me every day, And I'll keep burning them, For that's what I am. Fire. And fire needs coal, after all.
Hey guys!! On this Valentine's day, let's write about the pain of being the object of love.
True, we mostly see one side of the coin, the lover's pain and desperation.
What about the pain of being loved? True, it's an extremely lucky thing to be loved with such passion, but what about the pressure to always live up to their expectations if you love them, and the guilt of breaking their heart if you don't?
Write a story, quotation, poem, or whatever comes to your mind and tag the post with #object
I do not think I posses the clarity of thought required to answer a question as simple as cheking a yes for breathing and still, simultaneously, as complex as rehabilitation for a chainsmoker who doesn't understand the 'why' behind living.
My days haven't been linear for as long as I have been a master of my days, and before that, my days have been a reflection of my mother's lack of linearity. I am so many good days but bad nights, and I am so many loud nights but silent days; my definition of good changes with every sunset. My life is a culmination of so many undefined dimensions and interpretations, which aren't always my own, that more often than not, I am barely keeping up with the systematic documenting of all its aspects.
I am so many nights of wishing upon a falling star merging with a craving for a starless sky; I am so much longing merging with avoidance; I am so much ambition merging with incompetence, and I am so much care merging with neglect. I have never been good at deconstruction, and they didn't teach me how to be sure about anything and I feel so lost in this overly romanticised grey.
And, when I tell you that I am fine, you nod with an understanding that's almost palpable and reflect the words that felt like betrayal on my tongue. I wince internally as they graze my skin and rub against it like sand paper.
So, I take a knife out of my pocket and carve half a moon on your mouth and mine, and ask you the question again.
You tell me that you are fine, again, but this time, the words are tender in their caress, like a lie you don't expect me to acknowledge, like a lie that's not to be perceived as a lie. Your eyes tell me that the words no longer taste like betrayal to the self.
And I, forcefully ignorant, choose an easy deconstruction of a question I don't fully understand, and echo the f-word in all its vulgar glory. Fine.
'When our thinking forms a pattern to go only in one direction, it becomes difficult to change it completely, but we can always train it not to go there anymore. We must break the pattern before the pattern breaks us.' -Shahenshah Hafeez Khan
The marks on your wrists, although waving quite visibly in the air as you took orders to brew various kinds of coffee, were as oblivious as the pain that walks on streets in the form of the most beautiful smiles. And yet, here I am, writing once again, about stories that lay concealed beneath layers of awkward silences, make-believe happiness and sometimes, even aggressive defiance, like the one your eyes had reflected, the moment they had caught mine fixated on your forearm.
And today morning, while waiting in the queue, I saw you eyeing me with a smirk upon your lips. My knotted eyebrows soon straightened back as my gaze finally came to rest upon your skin. The marks were gone. Deleted forever or veiled, once again, I can't quite say. Replaced by a dragon tattoo, that looked both, formidable and fierce. And I'll give you that, the tattoo looked much better suited on your wrist than those objectionable stains. After all, the weaknesses, in this so called big bad world are supposed to find a place only within a poetry.
But as I lie here now, at the silent hour of midnight staring above at the ceiling, I can't help but wonder. Wonder what is it that you fear? Being judged for the way you deal with pain or the pain getting drenched in pitiful rains. I wonder what is worse? The slits that slowly drain your life or the life that makes you cut yourself every night. And I wonder why you chose to veil it once again? To save yourself a yet another sad song, or cause somehow, you knew I'd write about you and 'scars' wasn't the note you wanted your poetry to end on.