Believed?

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The first time you told me you loved me, I didn’t even know what that meant. For me, it was safety and cuddles and someone who’d get me chocolates when I scraped my knees and give me their toys when I got tired of mine. I was the girl dancing, with big eyes and stars within; And, I believed you.

Fast forward a few years on, too fast we discover death together. We grow up, we lose our best friend. The world is an abstract of emotions, fleeting. So much so, that the only thing that seems familiar, seems safe, is you. You tell me you love me, even through my hysterics and sedatives, even as scared as you were yourself. Barely a boy; But, I believed you.
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The year you left, I remember staring up at the night sky, a budding teenager desperately searching for answers beyond her age. Even then, I remember hearing your voice through the haze surrounding me. Even then I remember the conviction of the thought that you were out battling demons and that you were one who’d come back at least. Barely a memory; Still, I believed you.

 

I hadn’t cried for two days even amidst all the others mourning. You didn’t have to do anything, just sit by my side to let me lower my walls, to let me break down. You were shaking even as you tried to grip me, as if you could physically pull all the pieces together. You were silent even as you saw me suddenly smile and smooth my face over no matter how disapproving the look on your own face. Your eyes told me stories of galaxies of refuge, of strength and reluctant pride. Barely a feeling; Though, I believed you.

 

When I first read The Notebook, you were Noah for me. I should have realized then that we were doomed. When you told me you loved me, I laughed. You told me again, and I started thinking ‘maybe’. Come eighth time and slowly, I let myself love you. Let myself listen to you. Let myself acknowledge what you could be to me. Barely a thought; However, I believed you.

 

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They thought we were too perfect for such young an age.
Nice now meant giving too much, a noose around your neck. Forever sort of love sounded like you were suffocating.
Your friends wanted you to be there on the other side smoking pot instead of entertaining the wide eyed girl with her irrational love for ice cream.
Your breath now stank of iridescent lies and dangerous highs.

 

The last time you told me you loved me; I stopped believing in love.

Wronophobia

There is a word for the fear of being seen as you are and the incessant thinking that you can’t be loved being yourself. They call it wronophobia. I don’t think they should have a word for that because it’s just a fancy way of creating yet other differences, making people more conscious of it. Who are we anyways? I don’t suppose any of us is one person, confined to a certain description of how we are. I used to call my friend a hypocrite back when I was this angry emo girl wanting nothing to do with anyone in the world. I later realized that it’s not that she was being fake, she just had a different approach to different people. However, in our obsession with people and companionship and being liked I sometimes think we lose sight of our own shadow striving to be all that would be ‘acceptable’ and avoiding our own selves, running around, always tired, always short of breath.

IMG_20160702_015708_790I’ve never liked myself too much. I always assume I’m boring and dry and have a repetitive reel going in my head and that no one would want to listen to my crap. I’ve looked around at the chirpy, sassy girls with their comebacks and their sense of humour and always felt as if I lacked something; That I was inadequate. Your immediate outward personality is what draws people to you, very few reach in and understand the person that you are. People come among people to have fun, to laugh. No one wants to spend time breaking down the boring barriers and come to the hyper talkative person that I believe is inside all of us. We’re made up of stories and each one of us is bursting to tell their own. If only, each one of us was willing to listen too.

Growing up, you learn to manipulate yourself, to adjust according to people. Everyone wants to be included and in the process of trying to be likeable we lose sight of ourselves and let the belief that we couldn’t be loved if we weren’t a certain way, simmer, gaining momentum, striving to compensate for being what we’re actually supposed to be. Ourselves. It is a restless thrust forward driven by the applause rather than the cause, trying to curb the insatiable thirst for outside acceptance and admiration, our lives proliferating into delusional ideals of perfection and ‘goals’ with no regard to the thought that each of our journeys is different, our stories unique and amazing in their own kind.

The fear of being unloved and unwanted is too great to overcome and so we try to cut off the parts of us that are flawed, crooked or inconvenient and unknowingly, initiate a  detrimental war against our own selves, battling to oppress the core of what makes us different. In the world that we live in now, self-esteem is like an empty bucket with a leak we desperately keep on scooping worth into, always striving to be a certain way, addicts for the reassurance of someone or the other to counter the self-sabotaging thoughts. The innocent wish to be accepted thus evolves into a disabling fear even when we don’t fully realize it taking its toll on our lives, gripping into us with claws so deep we can’t free ourselves without bleeding.

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I’ve since realized I’m not a perfect porcelain doll. I’m not someone with good comebacks or an amazing sense of humour. I’m complex and edged, full of scars and flaws and cracks but every edge of me is a part of my distinctiveness. They define me and complete me. They make me a whole person and I don’t have to strive for a certain ideal to be something to someone. The self confidence that I can be happy with my own self, peaceful with the voices in my own head gives me more satisfaction than anything I did to be liked did. Reclaiming authenticity is frightening. I feel like I’m meeting someone who had been trapped in a tower for too long and is now learning what the world is through new eyes. Despite all the stumbles of my metaphorical ‘sea legs’ though, I’m glad to meet myself.

Beads of Blood.

What do they know?.

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You would think it hurts, It doesn’t. It’s a high, a relief when for a sweet second, you can point out the direction of the pain in real time, you can have an active reason to feel. They always say it incredulously as if who would want to feel the pain.

I smile to myself, what do they know.

Finally, I’m in control, I can determine myself what I want to feel, how I want to feel and for a freeing moment; I’m me.

As the drops of crimson appear, I’m laughing.

I’m laughing because I can finally see you again.

I’m laughing because this is one thing that I get to keep.

I’m laughing because these beads of shared blood and your voice in my head covers all my senses until all I can see and feel and hear, is you.

It’s madness and I’m laughing because this madness is mine and no one can take me from me.

Wilderness we walk alone.

Love your solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you. For those who are near you are far away… and this shows that the space around you is beginning to grow vast…. be happy about your growth, in which of course you can’t take anyone with you, and be gentle with those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don’t torment them with your doubts and don’t frighten them with your faith or joy, which they wouldn’t be able to comprehend. Seek out some simple and true feeling of what you have in common with them, which doesn’t necessarily have to alter when you yourself change again and again; when you see them, love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust…. and don’t expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.

– Rainer Maria Rilke; Letters to a Young Poet

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They say solitude is the most basic human condition and all the connections that we make are in an attempt to undermine its crushing reality.

Much of our suffering in relationships come from the expectation that the other person would somehow solve this solitude, that somehow we would not feel so alone, trapped in our own heads with no comprehension from another.
We forget though, that we came into this world alone and we have to deal with ourselves, by ourselves. Our problems are our own and to expect any relief from anyone else is but a mere illusion.

They say that other people can relieve that solitude, but that’s only for brief moments – They can give us a glimpse of something else, some place beyond the experience of reality – Some other, less lonely thing that we can only see in flashes, like a dream of a dream. Some place that we can not, as long as we are alive, ever know.

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We are all point masses, randomly searching for our place in this universe, striving to belong; We collide with others in the process, giving parts of us away, remaining a little less whole, or so we feel.

I’d like to think that the world is really a thing that is made new each day, regardless of what was left yesterday, for as people, we have to fill our emptiness on our own, command our happiness from within. I’d like to think we can control the order of things at least at that level; The most basic yet the most complex one.

At least, I’d like to think so.

Scattered thoughts. Incomplete sentences.

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Not bodies. Not people. A bundle of feelings. Memories and Moments. Each light that’s snuffed out leaves a permanent shadow in someone else’s life. Numerous dreams lurking in the dark. Wishes suspended in the sky. Leaving the world darker. Changing things in a way that’s never the same again. A song at an end. The notes fading away. Silence. It’s those left behind that have it the hardest. To come to terms that they would never feel a certain way again. All that’s left being a non-existent future turned to dust. Glossy pictures, Painted smiles, Reminding them of time that shined. A string of I love yous and I’m sorry’s. So much left unsaid. A constant hole, nagging in the chest.The father, the mother, the siblings, not one thinking what if. What if it was the last time? What if the next time we saw the other was in a box of intricate wood with the very flag we fought to wave being the one to wrap it tight. A veil between all that was familiar and what is now and would be. Not one life, but a million others tangled. All along never realizing the beauty of the life that had been theirs. Building life from its foundations, always wanting to change its structure, always vying for what they didn’t have. Building life, to die.

“There’s no love like the first.”

Rosemary Rogers said, First romance, first love, is something so special to all of us, both emotionally and physically, that it touches our lives and enriches them forever.

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First loves are as sweet as they are unexpected. They make us vulnerable even while they make us feel as if we are invincible giving us a strength to match the riding high of emotion. It connects with the deepest, most sensual areas of the brain conforming its paradigms to that experience.

Memories of first love are always tumultuous.  Very few experiences in our lives are as intense and overwhelming. They come to us at a time when we are emotional virgins and take us by surprise. There is no warning, no foreword, and no experience to counter the onslaught of emotions that become us. They shape our perspective about the affair and define love for us in a way that stays with us even in the future when we have more hindsight. George Bernard Shaw held that first love is a little foolish and a lot of curiosity. This might be true as in a lot of cases. First loves, by design, usually don’t last. It could be that they mostly happen at times when parental pressure, peer pressure, academic stresses, societal obligations etc. play an important role in our life. Most people, when reunited with their first loves, their couple doesn’t last which proves that most probably it’s the high of the feeling that makes the experience so unforgettable.

Psychologists compare first loves to ‘Imprinting’ which, in Biology is the biological bond made by living beings in a sensitive period of their life. Ducklings for example, start following whatever moving object they see after hatching. They relate this theory of imprinting to humans in such a way, saying that adolescence is that sensitive period for all of us and we imprint to the one who gives us importance and center our entire life around them. This however, is countered by the study that not everyone experiences first love in this period of their life. Also, with the fact that not everyone is strung up on this bond as others. Some people are happy to move on from the feeling, chalking it up as a learning experience. It’s not that these people did not experience the same; just that they let it go. That is where we have the power, the choice to hold on to it and desensitize the experience or to keep the magic inside us forever and let it go. The power to grow magnificent wings; and fly…

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Whatever the case with first loves might be, whether it happens after a string of lovers at the age of thirty or as a virgin at fifteen, they consume you and no matter how much time passes, they stay with you even when you don’t care anymore. You might fall in love again and be very happy about it but there is something about the innocence of discovering the art of living for others for the very first time that marks you deeper than anything else has the power to do so. They take us to a time when the world was spread before us for us to explore and we thought anything was possible. It’s love in its unadulterated form. It might not last forever, it might not withstand the trials of time or be ever growing but in a moment of time, it is our whole world and in that moment, we are infinite.  

STRENGTH.

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They say that battles make people stronger; whether they are physical or spiritual. Who defines strength? Who is there to decide whether someone emerges out stronger than before and does that mean they weren’t strong before or is it so that they are just accustomed to it by then and have experienced it before such that things of that nature don’t faze them anymore? Who would be the judge of it all and who sets the standards? At what point are you allowed to ask why? Ask why you are thrust into one battle after another. At what time are you justified to scream ‘Enough!’ What is strength really and till what point can you keep up the delusion and reassurance of it. What happens when you let go, does that mean you failed and aren’t as strong or does that mean that you finally broke the illusion and accepted the broken pieces of your soul as they are. Isn’t being broken better than the false illusion called strength?..