"If life is a bed of roses I have but one request: throw me among the thorns, allow me to feel the pain of falling. Let me be hurt so I know what healing feels like. Let me know that I can still bleed; that I'm neither frozen nor unmoving. Let me feel alive again."
That was what I had written once.
I was 18. I was in college. I was young and – looking back with eyes that had seen twelve monsoons – one would be tempted to say that I was puffed up on youthful arrogance. It had never dawned on my shallow adolescent mind that there are such things as a self-fulfilling prophecy. I was young still after all, and with the typical faith that the forces behind the system would side with us. Somebody’s always someone’s meal ticket.
Ah, the foolishness of youth. Wasted wastage of wisdom gathered the hard way. Bitter pills to swallow and all that.
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Valentine’s Day holds a different meaning to me ever since 2001. Someone dear to me passed away on that day and I could never look at the date on the calendar without feeling a surge of impotent rage at the life taken away from me.
Perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be.
After the rage quelled itself, then the sorrow will come and often at times during the days leading to, or past VD I would replay the cherished moments we managed to share. That’s all that I have left.
People have oft told me that ten years is much too long a time to be spent mourning for someone. I would usually spitefully spat back that they weren’t the ones with loss, guilt, regret and rage churning in their heads. Then of course, the remorse at biting the hand that attempted to succour me will come and I’ll bashfully apologise. Yet again.
It’s becoming quite predictable that it becomes sickening.
Maybe it’s time to break out the razors and start back to cutting. But that’s another story.
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