I won’t moralise about what I’ve learned but I can tell you this: in my experience, telling the truth can land you in just as much shit—err, crap, as lying. More sometimes. Sure, a lie can trap you; it can crush you immediately or slowly weigh you down until you suffocate. But telling the truth won’t necessarily set you free; it can cost you everything you love the most. And it can force you to face yourself, as painful as that may be.
SECRETS are lies in their own right. One can’t keep a secret without a lie. And we revere someone who can keep a secret, yet scorn those who lie. It is the same. They all meld together. We want confidantes to surround us, trustworthy and loyal. But we scream bloody murder when we find someone has been keeping secrets from us. We forget to remember the fact that they could be someone’s confidante themselves. Or maybe it’s not their secret to tell. And, maybe not ours to know either. Secrets we have with our cronies are revered. They make our bond grow stronger. Secrets they have with someone else, us being not on the in, ruin relationships of years past. We love, we fight, we cry over those secrets. But we can’t live without them. They rule us and all our actions. They control us in ways we would destroy lives to get away from the pressure of revealing them than succumb. But we won’t let go. Every now and then, the slate is clean and we have the opportunity to move forward without any of it weighing us down. But another day dawns and ding! We are back to square one, surrounded by beautiful lies and lovely secrets, ever strengthening the stench of desperation to be the one holding all the cards where the bets are high and the game has just begun.
They say fate smiles upon us and floods our lives with happiness when we have had our share of hurt. It takes time and patience. Lots of it. But it happens. And, we live our life believing the wise words of the, well, wise. We learn to rationalise all the messed up shit that went down because there must be a reason. Sometimes we question it, sometimes we don’t. And, we start to believe that after all is said and done, we will come out on top and have a wonderful, wonderful life. But we know what happens to the plans and expectations. They disappoint us more than they don’t. And, we are back to questioning everything that has happened. We lose the faith and we start the downward spiral to the burgeoning pit of hopelessness. We become a shell of ourselves, only sadder and depressed. That’s where love comes in. It finds us drowning in the deep end and throws the float. We hold on for our lives and it sails us through. And, when we get out of the pit, we leave behind the slabs of hopelessness tied to our feet that had been pulling us in, and throw our arms wide, welcoming a life full of excitement and opportunities. And, of course, love. Always, love.
Ghosts blew through the deserted corridors of his soul like gusts of cold wind. His eyes. It looked like nothing resided in those icy blue globes. But for a fleeting second I saw whole universe swimming in there. Then the shutters dropped as if it never was. That half-grin of his was just that –a wry twist of his lips, trying to hide the real beauty behind it. It was nothing like his real smile. That was a breathtaking sight. When he smiled, people stopped and stared. But he didn’t do it often. No. It was as if he was afraid of smiling; as if the reason behind it would be taken away from him if he showed even a sign that he was a normal, lovable person. He acted like an emotionless, ice-hearted asshole who only did what he wanted to without giving a shit about anyone. But, I saw the truth. I saw that he was a guy with heart of gold and most colorful mind.
Fashioned with the essence of her feelings, a new color she had made. Dipping the tip of the brush that was her self-respect, she had made him portraits of her heart. They showed the deepest darkness that resided in the crevices of the blood pumping, overhyped version of the organ.
Dripping the thick red drops of her life blood, she had made paintings that were now the ashes accumulating around the fire she had started with gasoline laced with hatred he oozed and poison he hurled at her. The beauty that she had brought to life with the heart blood that with every pump screamed of her adoration for him was nothing more than ashes of her heart now.
Staring at the flames dancing, as if rejoicing in her slow demise, her need to get back up and paint the world an opaque so dark that nobody would see anything but her brave, young heart, roared. She wasn’t a lowly shell of a being who would let go of the beauty that was her just because she knew how this world works now. She was a fire that wouldn’t die just as easily.
And, so to keep it going, she threw the past as wood, sprinkled with the very color she had fashioned with the essence of her feelings. The roaring amber was a sight to behold. With hair flying in the wind of courage and eyes sparkling with the gold of the fire, she became a new person. She became a person she could be proud of. She became a person who created entire galaxies of memories to fill up the deep, dark pit where her heart once beat, echoing his name. Now, it echoed her own.
Those whiskey eyes Drenched in her heart blood, Staring silently into the darkness. Long eyelashes wet With the dew of her soul’s rains. The dark half moons under her amber jewels More pronounced than ever. They are the I’ve-seen-it-all eyes, Laden with experiences of numerous lives past. She has no crow’s feet. She’s young. But her precious eyes tell a different story. She’s lived through it all. Those liquid gold eyes have been witness. Numbness is her friend. Her eyes know it even better.