Of pretty songs and primary colors and loss.

Some rare things make me feel for tiny moments such as this, that love- the pure kind where it's bliss (and possible) to wake up to look and marvel at a face each morning- is possible for real. I like the thought and I like keeping skeptism away at such moments. Not because I'm hopeful but because at those times, I'm again a younger, more trusting, less cynical me. I belong yet again to a time when happiness was found full in tiny things, when nothing was desired, when pink evenings made me want to run out and soak in summer and birdsong through my skin, when wildflowers were arranged into bouquets, when life was simple, music was love, not meant to be stripped down to be memorized and replicated, when hands were pretty unadorned, hair wasn't fussed about. When writing was for me alone.

And so, when I'm that girl again, there's still beauty in the world, songs can have different annotations with discrete memories attached, behind layers of notes and words of love. There are, once again, so many different possibilities for the future, all a different primary color.

Above all, I miss my notions of love. And the belief that it existed and would stay mine forever.

What do I do with the weight of all that I have grown to lose?

What waiting taught me.

There was this place. It was cool and silent, and it was a living room. The place of someone who wasn't particularly friendly. I remember waiting. And shyness; the faint smell of incense and the muted clink of cutlery from a few rooms away.
I remember expectation. And a little evening sunlight filtering, orange, through the heavy curtains that looked like they'd been sewn with canvas material.

And there was one of those china dolls that danced if you pushed their heads. Bobbed to and fro. I remember stifling the temptation to push its head.
I remember caterpillars in the lemon plants in their garden.
Above all, while waiting, I remember their animosity. It was a weird realization for a kid.

I Hope

I hope.

Again.

Ever so badly, I hope.

Against what you say, I hope.

Against that sinking feeling, I hope.

Against the finality, I hope.

Against the inevitable,

Against conversations that drown my dreams,

Against words that dash my hopes,

I hope.

Against every second that passes, I hope.

Against the dreadful weight of knowing,

Against this futile throb,

Against pages of wills and won’ts,

Against threatening tears,

Against the impending news,

I hope.

Against embittered vows,

Against tear-streaked oaths,

I hope.

Against the sheer stupidity of it all,

I hope.

And then, I hope some more.

Why, when it’s so obvious?

Why, when it’s so useless?

Why??

Accepting

Accepting is all you can do.

Or you can scream and cry,

Kick and moan,

Protest and reject,

Crib and complain,

Threaten and cower,

But that won’t change a thing.

You can try to deceive

Yourself and others,

But never your destiny.

You can twist and manipulate

The truth and the situation,

But your fate knows.

It won’t say anything,

Just watch on, knowingly.

You can fool your thoughts,

Can fool your heart,

But your life is smarter than you’d know.

You can pry and wish,

Hope and want,

But that doesn’t guarantee anything.

You can be angry,

Yell and throw things about.

But it’ll only amuse them.

Or you can accept defeat

And end it all.

And destiny will smile as it snips your life away.

So, accepting is all you can do.

You don’t hold the strings.

You don’t own a thing.

You can just go on,

Pass under grey clouds,

Or pink sunsets.

But whatever you do,

You’ve just gotto do.

There’s no other way.

There’s no way around.

Where else will you run to?

What’s in your hands?

So turn around and face it all.

Or bury your face in your pillow.

‘cause whatever you do,

Doesn’t change a single damn thing.

It’ll all just go on.

With you or without you.

Just as it always did.

Life.