I want a time machine, one that I wouldn’t have to eventually give up on for the greater good. And if I found a genie, that’s exactly what I would squander my wish on because, of course, world peace is clearly not that important(*sarcasm*).
Everybody has a past that one would want to get back to; second chance, a way to make things right, to get back there and wipe the creases that are the root-cause of wrinkles and crows feet now. The markets are flooded with creams, lotions, potions to stop the stubborn time from ticking. But I sometimes wonder why the future is so scary when the real horrors, the one that are tangible and really happened, are the ones that took place in the years that can’t be reversed. Like a scab that one can’t resist but pick on, we look back at the time that shaped us, gave us the deformity that science can never cure.
I feel I have a tattoo on my heart that says ‘Nobody will ever pick you because you are not worth it’. I know it’s untrue, but like every ridiculous marking that one gets at the heat of the moment, this one too will forever remain.
I wonder what tattoos you hide beneath those clothes. I wonder whether you let them define you.
People that you let in your lives, the ones that initially gave you the impression were nothing but heavenly angels in disguise… Did they let you down? Did the love that you worked so hard for, the one that you tried to make it work, even though it felt like you were walking through asphalt… Did it break you down? The ones who were supposed to protect you… Were they the first ones to stone you?
Most importantly, do you blame yourself? Do you think it was somehow your fault that things took an ugly turn? Do you clench your fists and yell out in anger, ‘why always me?’?
Join the gang; and you’ll be surprised how many people have been long-standing members of this aforementioned ‘gang’.
Surprising isn’t it, the grip that these pesky crawlers have in our present? I was talking to a friend and it was heartbreaking to see how she finds it difficult to accept love when it comes her way; how she is okay when people are mad at her, but when they are kind, she gets suspicious. Then I know this 79-year-old man, one whom I love so much. He holds, hordes and guards these floodgates of rage against the world that let him down every step of his way. I love him, but he won’t let me love him back.
I wonder what, according to the experts, is the right time to severe the tie, to cut the umbilical chord that rather than giving life is sucking the present dry.
I hope you give love, joy, hope a second chance. Just because you never had it, doesn’t mean it can’t still come in a box.