“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.”
Two days back I chanced upon this profoundly beautiful yet lingeringly melancholic quote by a woman who chronicled her pains into one of literature's finest pieces.
Someone, a stranger, in a random chat, once said, " Even gold becomes the purest when it goes through fire."
Pain. It creates us. It moulds us. We become children of fire. Of desire. The same desire which gave us the same pain. The same strength. To love and to be reborn.
Rumi had once said, " It's a human's continual pleasure to be mesmerised by the confusing pain that the joy of love gives us." A woman as Sylvia who saw a replica of her much beloved father in a man who would later on drive her to the zenith point of depression enough to place her head in an oven and thereby intoxicate the deepest language a soul could speak, never knew how naive a human temperament could get when fondled in the embrace of a huge feather, such as love. For it is light, it is soft, it makes us feel good but will it always be there when the strongest gusts of wind blows by. Equal respect given to the situation on either sides of the line of love, it could be a feather, it has also been iron. But would we humans know when we are in bliss, what danger really lies ahead? Danger of desperation, danger of heartbreak, danger of trust being or not misplaced. Yet how comfortably we ensconce ourselves into this crevice never knowing how deep the gorge actually is.
Great are those who have given themselves into every tumult love and its despair has caused and immortals are the ones who have died with the same love in their hearts. What we make of ourselves with the other person, accounts for what conviction we hold in the affairs of heart. With a lover, with a friend, with a parent, with a child.
To kill oneself in love would have been an easier way, but to die in love is no small feat.
Countless sleepless nights, unending streams of tears and a solemn bidding goodbye to all the rosy moments till now, only to enter into a hemisphere of darkness and a not so fastidious strength of heart, succumbs the creative intellect and man's mind's ability to perceive happiness.
But do we care?
We still place this fragile thing called heart in another human's powerful fist yet again, the deep dark recesses of whose minds we have yet found unfathomable.
Pain and joy are sisters. Their mother being love. They love each another. They resemble each another. But they are born for different purposes. To sulk. To live.
Let the mother therefore decide, how the bearer seeds in his beliefs for each of her child, for no good human ever known has not gone through pain to attain the joy of realisation. The joy of life. Let everyone learn from Sylvia, never to wallow and drown in the whirlpool of love, but to struggle and swim this rough ocean to reach the shore of life and certain meanings it might teach you. For which love has ever been there for a reason, unless fallen in and found out!