Don’t say you love me.

I’ve never really understood how people say they ‘loved’ someone.

How can you say that you loved someone once but you don’t anymore?

How do people fall out of love?

How can someone be your entire world and then just, not be there anymore?

So we’ll get ice-cream together, dance in the rain, stay up till morning light talking about our pasts and our future, stray under the yellow streetlights at midnight until one day the morning waffles don’t taste the same anymore and none of the late nights seem worth it any longer.

Don’t say we are forever if you don’t mean it, because I might just end up believing you.

Don’t say you love me if it doesn’t mean the same to you as it does to me, because I’ve spent far too many nights on bathroom floors, trying to numb the pain out.

Don’t say you love me if you won’t stay the night; because when I think of love, I wish I didn’t think of pain.

Déjà vu.

Art has a way of taking you back to when you first felt it.

To who you were back then. To what life used to look like when you first heard that song, or read that book. To where you were and whom you were with.

Whether in a cab , on the way home,
watching the rain pour down your city and the lampposts paint the streets yellow or feeling the loneliest you’ve ever felt, sitting in a room full of people.

That’s how powerfully art can heal.
It’s something so beautiful ,yet it’s tragic how only such few people are ever careful enough to experience it.

3 A.M.

Sometimes, when no one’s home, I like to feel my tears dry on my face, running down to my lips so I can taste them.

When I was younger, I used to cry myself to sleep very often. And I used to hope that my pillow remain wet till sunrise, so that maybe someone would notice something was wrong.

But it never did.

No one ever knew.

What’s it with pain?
It comes and goes like the waves in the ocean, crashing so unexpectedly.There are moments when I know I’m hurting, but I don’t feel hurt enough to cry. Others when I don’t know how I ended up on the bathroom floor at 3 AM, with tears streaming down my face.

Sometimes I envy the little girl I used to be. She could cry so easily.
But then the world taught her that her tears were pearls that should remain locked up. She learned the lesson dutifully, along with her arithmetic and literature.

And now that she doesn’t know how to cry anymore, she bites her tongue to stop her tears from spilling and crashes onto the pavement, with no one by her side to catch her.

Hurting.

human
/ˈhjuːmən/
adjective

1. of or characteristic of people as opposed to God or animals or machines, especially in being susceptible to weaknesses.

See, the thing is, ever since you’re a kid you are asked to shut your mouth every time you burst into tears.
Your Mom looks at you helplessly, your Dad calls you weak and walks away, your friends call you a crybaby.

So you grow up to believe that emotions are your Achilles heel. You figure out that maybe tears are a show of vulnerability and you learn to cry yourself to sleep, hiding them from the world so that you no longer embarrass your parents.

But then one day you’re hanging out in the cafeteria with your friends after college and one of them says,”You dont ever cry, do you ?”.

Yes.

I do.

On the bathroom floor at 3 AM.
Because that’s what they taught me.

So, instead of raising humans, the society ended up raising a generation of kids who don’t know what to do with the mess in their heads.

We ask for food when we’re hungry.
We ask for water when we’re thirsty.
What stops us from asking for love when we’re hurting ?