Six years ago, I followed someone’s hot chocolate recommendation. So off I went, ordered the hot chocolate, and sat at the shop’s veranda. From where I sat, I saw a lovely woman. I can still remember the large windows that allowed me to see her. I remember her very long hair.
Today, I sat where she sat six years ago. The hair that I grew long because of her, I now cut short.
Several times, the past had beaten us up with its heavy hand. It unlocked secret doors and let out the foul smell of dead dreams. It embarrassed us in moments we thought we owned. It forced us to sleep and caused us to wake up drenched in sweat.
Ignorant of martyrdom, we chose to forgive it anyway. Even if it doesn’t want to. We made peace with it anyway not so it can own up to the sutures but so we can free ourselves from the madness and loathing. Only then the wound should heal.
In the present, we are scarred. But we wear these scars like badges. For love to oneself. Time and time again. And for love once and for all.
How brave must living be. It is rather paradoxical that something so delicate and pure can empower us to look even the wildest of beasts in the eye. To wear love as an armor to a war of blood and terror.
How incomprehensibly beautiful.
When all comes to an end and everything turns to dust, may we be the legacy that gilded angels always wanted to leave but never had the chance to. Scattered across time and space, may our stories of love lacing and engulfing hate be remembered as if words to the first of first lullabies.
Our love felt like a silent movie for all the wrong reasons. There were no words, only vague body language and clear expressions that do not reflect the anguish of the heart. The silence was unsilence. The ambivalence of our lips over the chaos in our chests. If fire was set over our bodies, it would be easier to know the truth behind our lifelessness. It’s bad but at least it’s true. And we know. Nothing hurts worse than silence when there shouldn’t be.