Suffering is only beauty misunderstood-A Short Story

As the sun cried foul over your current emotion, you quietly sat at the corner of your room, with the black curtains strangely withdrawn, hanging by the thinnest of the threads, and floating satirically, while the stains of perfume worn on the day she left, brings in waves of melancholia, creating fire with ice, and consuming every heart that ever loved.

So you leapt towards your dairy, but the thought of scribbles that already wander the pages untiringly, makes you feel guilty about yourself, for the sheets that have felt your tears, only understand.

Outside, the clouds spun an unwelcoming gesture so you quickly closed the curtains and threw yourself lifelessly unto your bed. That usual feeling, each time your skin touched the sheets, and the afterglow which you so splendidly know.

But today felt a little heavier, as the soaked pillows pulsated with desperation, unwilling to live another day in misery. But there is no getting up left anymore, and any energy left would be passionately used in feeling abundantly bad about yourself.

So you wept like the clouds during a storm and had yourself swept by the flood of your tears, creating an abyss of emotions so cold that nothing of life looks beautiful anymore. And just a few yards away, a painting of ‘happiness’ which you drew just last summer, seems to come to life only to remind you that it’ll just be a dream.

It’s you, each time the stars collide, a flower loses its scent or the song swirls in insanity, because every thought is now blurry, and ruthless is life, for the givers of grief know so well, it’s the only thing that compels.

Holding the ashes of death unto your hands, you lit another cigarette, but this time, it did not seem to matter. If life is always miserable, then a little spark, even if it kills us eventually, is just an unintended gift, you think.

So much for this wet night that you can no longer cry a tear or even feel the peal of laughter. It’s when the ceiling looks imaginatively alluring, and the pictures which you try to speedily draw, erasing its soul every time it nears completion, is nothing but an illusion.

So you sit in silence, the thousandth time, a millionth maybe, and freeze yourself in the oblivion of your misery, as your heart thumped a little slower, overly exhausted, severely torn, and impatiently bled.

But it was you who suffered and it was you who also conquered, now that you think, and for any music to be truly appreciated, it needs to be understood like you were in it. You let your mind dance through madness only to find yourself in the process.

Perhaps the enlightened have always been the ones whose fragrance is found only after a few flops turn things around. It's suffering that glows, pain that inspires, and art that always stays.

-Yogesh Chandra