A Forgotten Name.

She’d write her name with yours,
Write and rewrite.
Her name, it looked beautiful in ink,
Not really understanding your betrayal,
While in reality,
It bled.
Just like her heart.
The longer she stared at the ink,
The more red it seemed to get,
Until it too turned into blood,
Seeping through
The pages of her journal.
The pages of her life.
Stained and ugly,
She tried to wash those stains away,
Not really caring
That she was washing away her existence,
Until only a smear remained
On the leather-bound exterior.
It tells stories now,
Of a how a life was exhausted,
While washing away the stains
Left by betrayal.
Of how, even on paper,
She wouldn’t let there be any signs
That’d mar your name.
Of how, she loved you so much,
She washed away her name from yours,
Just so it’d continue to look beautiful.
To be beautiful.
Without her ugly existence.
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What’s beautiful without a little ugly in it?

Love, they say, is omnipresent. Like air. Like God. But. A very big BUT, actually. The only way love can be omnipresent is if it’s just as ugly as it is beautiful.

I once asked someone I love, “What’s beautiful without a little ugly in it?” And he laughed. That was beautiful. We fought after an hour. I cried. He doesn’t cry. He lashed out. I lashed out more. That was ugly. That was love.

The digital age we’re living in allows us to see the world at just a touch of our fingers. Which almost always gives me a serious case of wanderlust. I love France. Paris, especially. The city of love, they call it. I always dream of closing my eyes and being stood in front of the Eiffel Tower, when I open them. Gazing up at it standing tall in all its lit up glory, wide-eyed and awestruck. That is beautiful and that is love. And then I imagine a particularly snobby French lady or an old man, passing by me and turning their noses up at my ‘foreign appearance’. That is ugly, but is that love too? Maybe it’s their love for their country, the pride that comes with it that gives them the excuse to look down upon someone just because they were different than them. Could it be so?

I see pictures of the Al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem and it brings tears to the spiritual part of me. I wish I get to pray there at least once before I die. I see the Palestinians climbing up walls and climbing through barbed wires just so they get to pray at the place that is deemed as one of the holiest. That is beautiful. But at the same time, I wonder why do the Apartheid wall and those barbed wires even exist and what gives someone the excuse to treat fellow human beings so inhumanely. Is that love too? Pride maybe? Too much pride, I’d say. That’s ugly, but they call it love.

Even when we leave the world politics and economical metaphors aside, love simply can not be omnipresent without it also being the greatest paradox out there.

Take a rose, for example, it’s beautiful. Especially when it takes on that ruby hue and is fully bloomed. You pluck it, putting an end to its existence and a thorn pricks you. Hard. Things quickly get ugly. That’s love too, I suppose. Nature’s way of showing love.

There are parents who stop their children from doing things they love and then there are parents who give their kids full freedom to go out and learn from their mistakes. Neither set of parents wants to see their child get hurt, but one of them chooses to be weak by enforcing restrictions on them, while the other chooses to be strong by letting their child fall over and over again and tending to his injuries with a smile on their face and tears in their eyes, when the kid eventually gets up. That is love. Ugly in one case, beautiful in another. But it’s love nonetheless.

“Why do we fall, sir? So that we can learn to pick ourselves again.” I’m very forgetful, but sometimes, some things just tend to stay with you. This quote is one of those.

I’ve noticed things around me, things being done in the name of love, things both good and bad. Love for religion, love for money, love for fame, love for one’s family, love in its purest and most selfless form and I suppose the existence of ugly makes us appreciate the beautiful a little more. Even the best of us have a little darkness hidden inside us and the worst of us have the tiniest shard of light in our hearts, guiding us and it makes me keep thinking to myself, “What’s beautiful without a little ugly in it?”

A New Beginning.

She’d preserved her tears,
In an airtight container,
And locked them away,
In the darkest corner
Of the storage.
Her laugh, too,
Lay thoughtfully, in a trunk
Beside those tears,
Just slightly worn out and termite-bitten.
Covered with cobwebs,
And screened by a thick film of dusty memories.
Locked in with rust,
Pervading that age-old scent  
Of nostalgia.
And with every sunset,
She awaited the fireflies,
Who’d remind her of warm summer nights
Spent under this very porch.
The swing sat right where it’d been all those years ago,
Only now it was rusted and rotting away.
She heard voices echo all around her,
The empty house suddenly filled by the shouts and laughter of its previous inhabitants.
The stairs creaked with every step she took,
Warning her of the horror that was awaiting her.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the dreaded door.
The pieces of the shattered glass lay right where she remembered them to be,
The mirror, still cracked and blood-stained,
The curtains, half torn down.
With shaking hands, she reached for that trunk,
And she heard her laughter, so full of life, turning hollow.
But then, she pushed open the windows,
To let the summer breeze in,
And grabbed the broom lying in the corner,
Starting to sweep away the remnants of an ugly past.
The sun rays filtering in through the windows,
Had brought the room back to life.
And she heard her laugh turn lively again,
And she looked into the container to see those tears disappear.
Standing by the window with her eyes closed,
She breathed in the fresh air,
Opening her eyes to see the sunset taking away the ugliness from her life.
The fireflies came around, bringing back the smile that she’d once lost in this very room.

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