We Don’t Love Ourselves, But the Feeling that Someone Loves Us

All the stars have assembled against you, the numbness in each breath and the fiery desires crippling out of your heart like it was doomsday. Between the spaces of black and white feelings, you feel something different, one that has been entirely shifting the landscape of life at all spaces attractive.

Meanings are taught repetitively, ones which do not hold or what is this feeling—a dire need to be accepted into the body which will never love you. So many have already lost the path, yet you still walk, bare and bleak in hope and everything that is, so much for life to search for that one thing that does not even last for a few brief seconds.

It’s as if you are watching you walk, telling yourself such sensibly and in each thought that will make you drive yourself towards her—there is no hope but chaos that prevails and the walk that has not even started. And the meaning of love, the peculiar feeling of such colorful agony, for the wisest get to their knees—the sheets tremble and the vases get stacked with wilted flowers.

Nobody to tell, and you have never felt this before, not even in your wildest moment in life. But happiness, a deceiving act vested unto the generation to make us feel good about ourselves. The world is your enemy, and you do not care even if the last of the souls were to come between you and your emotions.

So you take a big beautiful blade and inscribe her name thrice, and with the same stain of red, you want to continue. Something is elegantly attractive in her thought that wants to completely destroy you. And it’s a beautiful feeling, for no one else could make you feel like this, ever.

Dripping veins and clustered walls surround, and her body is nowhere to be seen. You had seen her quite a while ago, but she didn’t say much, just avoiding your conversation as you quietly sat and wept. But today, you do not see, her hands that hold onto someone else’s.

Glasses don’t break, but your heart that is no longer a shrine to your body. O love, love love, pieces of premature hate—towards your own-self and everything that is you. Dreams so segregated, pictures taken of you and her have now even turned blurry. So you hold your breath for a few seconds, and you do not complain, just the ecstasy of love and its residuals that is so melting.

And to give you another reason to love, there is none. Symbolic curtains bewail, everything that is written for her, nothing prevails. Snow is turning its back on you and the mistletoes are dressing each other up on your lovers wedding day. It’s as if your existence doesn’t count, and her smile, lubricated with another man’s hands, she flies.

But all this feeling of love, nothing is real and everything that may feel like, it’s hate in its rawest state. We have forgotten the value of ourselves, in this not so distant lives that we so precariously try to live. Enough of this sonic emotion to overwhelm, seas to dissolve and the skies to penetrate.

-Yogesh Chandra