She thought she could make up a delicious story about anything, tap that feet on any floor and dance her way into glory, wear and rock an outfit out of the world and secure a tacit applause. She was replete with a higher self worth than the saints and the monks. One could try to love her but the results weren’t typical.
She knew what freedom, love and what the right thing felt like because when she was 12 years old, the wind and the water told her that just because she is young, it doesn’t mean she is going to feel any less, it just meant that she is not always going to understand it. She didn’t understand it. Not a single word or a manoeuvre. She felt like how a mother feels her infant child when they’re hungry or two lovers listening to each other breathe like words were just too much.
Loneliness stared at her from the gloomiest dark doorways, he growled at her but she slammed the door, horrified. she said she was scared. She wanted to run away. She put a great mask, although, delicately disguising the truth and the fear. She commodiously shrouded the darkness in her life with a cigarette and words.
Sometimes people are wrong for you. We are all wrong for someone. But what if you cannot, by every vehement solicitude of each and every cell of your body, stop feeling the way you feel about someone?
She, the portrait of a strong woman with a perspective and her own little imperfections, fell for someone wrong too. It was very awkward. Her love for him. She hated him. She’d do things to hurt him. She knew he was the wrong guy. But she craved that feeling of having the blade against her skin, missing the vein and the blood gushing out as a whimsical smile spreads across her face as the pain subsides. And as the high is gone, all shes left with are marks of the ripped skin. That’s how her love for him felt.
There was ravenous passion. There was mad love. Love of sorts where you actually lose yourself so so deep that it’s hard to find oneself again. Love where passion cries for hopelessness and the body cringes with pain. Love where she doesn’t lie in her comfort zone anymore but creates a new one which isn’t easy.
Sometimes she would cry herself to sleep on a soaked pillow. Sometimes she would give a squeal of sheer joy at his text. She would look for him on the streets and everywhere else and follow him around like a lost puppy. Her life was becoming about him. Slowly and painfully enough. He grasped her though. He made her feel alive. He added an awaited colorful pandemonium giving a factor of unpredictability, challenge and rawness. She knew not the whys and the hows and the whats and the wheres. There was an apparent drama going on.
Her glamorous life was someone’s idea of the best life one was living and here she was caught in the middle of chromatic entropy and intense discontentment.
He left her though. He ran away one day. He left her like a ruined poetry book collecting dust. So black and white and grey and filthy. She smirked. She probably just fell in love with the words that he said to her and with the moments that she shared with him. She probably only fell in love with a thought with the ‘maybe‘ of the ‘just us two‘ but falling in love with him himself was something she never felt. She probably just fell in love with the idea of falling in love with him “
This is not a love story with a sad ending. This is not about her or him. This is about the real life where the feelings are shit. They complicate you and makes that awesome person in you a piece of shit. And sometimes you just don’t know and that’s the right answer. And sometimes you got to use the F word and show that finger and move the F on.
“…do you know that feeling where you wanna tear the world apart,
and throw it all out on a piece of paper in words or as art…?
You’re dark tripping on utter anger and wrath and rage,
under the shroud they lay, the sins of a sage.
The heart and soul craves for each of his…the lust, the love, the last kiss
or the infinite unknown of his…”– Shit feelings can make you a Nobel prize winning poet. Or EMINEM.