Feelings and Emotions, Life

Of Poets and Self Love.


How do you write to such depth? How can you make me feel more complete as an individual when you tell me how incapable human hands are of holding a person together or what it feels like to forget how it feels to be alone? I haven’t met you. I know nothing about you. But your words, for a split second, teleported me in a universe that you created for me.

I, garbed in black overalls, could see the dark sky with too many bright stars. I was lying on the floor with my limbs stretched wide apart. I felt very soothed. In that moment, it was just me and my eyes moving the stars in sundry random patterns. I smiled endlessly because everything was just the way it was supposed to be. I  could smell my thoughts. It was a peculiar smell. I can’t describe it but it wasn’t something that withers away so promptly. It stays. Perhaps, they smelled like you. Unknown, yet known.

How much I want to know you, though. But why do you mostly talk about him? And why do I want to read you talk about him? Why do you tell me about how your heart cries when you hear him sing, and your skin becomes more vigilant of the music he creates that your soul dances to? Why do you give me a million perspectives of how a heartbreak or a kiss feels like? Why don’t you you tell me how I could love myself more? Why don’t you tell me how my insides are full of blooming daffodils and sunshine? And that the blood pulsating through my veins makes music comparable to Mozart’s?

Will you even read what I’d write next?

And so you did. This is good. We are now on the same page. I want to tell you something and you want to give in.
So I thought about Self Love today. Sometimes you are very well aware of how fabulous a person you are, how many lives you have affected merely by breathing in all that air around you (read The Butterfly Effect), all those mountains that you have moved and the kindness you’ve shown to the world around you. You realise what a beautiful, unique creation you are and yet you believe absolutely zilch.

People say crap to us, we believe it. We sulk about it. It’s almost like we are ever ready to jump in a filthy lake of negativity in the nub of a jungle full of monsters and a boundless soulless night.
People call you beautiful, it seem like a bleak reality, a dishonest flattery. Some fear that the acceptance of the compliment would be misinterpreted as them being too overbearing a person. WHY?

Why do people’s words have to have such a major impact on our lives? Aren’t we already aware of the fact that nobody’s perfect and no one really ever know where they are going? And why do we believe what’s not true?

When I was born, I carried a worth irrespective of how bizarre my actions were or how vague were the words I spoke. I was loved unconditionally. As I grew up, the number of conditions grew too. I had to follow a code of conduct and if I ever went wrong somewhere, I was bombarded with insults and depreciation from strangers and the close ones. To err is to human and hence it was inevitable. So somewhere inside I started accepting the negativity, started believing that whatever bad everyone said was true and perhaps also the image they created of me for me.

But don’t we all know, somewhere inside, that we are special and we were put on this planet for a purpose however big or small it is?

You remember the last time when you were right and your parents were wrong but they weren’t humble enough to accept their fault and made you feel like shit instead? Remember that day when someone called you fat and you went to check yourself out in a mirror and saw a fatfuck standing even though you looked absolutely fab to yourself just before he/she passed their judgement? Remember the time you sent an “I love you” text to the love of your life and got a “seen at 23:41” as a reply and you wasted the next one month eating your heart out and devising plans to somehow ask him/her why can’t they just love you back?

But if you would have loved yourself enough, trust me, all this wouldn’t have happened. We got to realise that WE NEED NO VALIDATION FROM ANYONE, EVER.
Worthiness is a graph which is a constant. It changes not with what people around you have to say about you, good or bad. WE DESERVE EVERYTHING THAT ANYONE ELSE DOES. We’re noteworthy beyond a doubt, our qualities lights up the house and we make an occasion worthy to be celebrated. We’re very special even when we just lie in our beds all day and do nothing at all. That, my friend, is the truth. And that line must sucker punch you in the chest with such awareness, you bounce back leaving behind all that slur that wasn’t even real.

You and I are fucking awesome and we know it. Lets start believing it.


3 thoughts on “Of Poets and Self Love.”

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