Stoner 4

We all talk of love in manners only we understand. Or, expect a certain somebody to understand. I'm not a fan of expressions. Even a knowing look does it for me. I'd misconstrued the value of expressions with someone you love, or as they say. I've never been much for saying. Talking, yes, but not saying. Talking can take you everywhere. But it is only when you say, you express. Wrong pick. [Note to self: Never say to people you even think might interpret you in the least possible manner.] But withholding myself from saying had gotten me into a problem right about a couple of times. Lesson learnt. So, what do you do the next time around? You say. And you end up saying a lot. And said so much that you literally map out your entire self in front of them. And you can see reciprocations flying through the thick wind, fighting the cables, right through to your inbox. And for once you're glad you decided to do otherwise than earlier. And you're happy for once; even people start noticing that. But you can't always have a happy dream, eh? So what you had been fretting, happens. Rather too quick. Not that I didn't envision it coming, I did. But not this quickly. Because I'd thought of it coming much later, and thought about handling it in a way we both accept. But such premature blow was quiet the last thing I'd expected. Your sixth sense give way to sensible premonitions. But you're so blindingly happy, that you discount the possibility of it. So when the premonitions do come true like a horror movie, you lose control. You're handicapped. You don't know what to say. And then the only weapon left with you to protect yourself from hurt is your retaliation. You either scream, fight, be civil and talk, cry, beg, or just silently walk out with that extra bottle of complimentary wine. However you choose to react is you retaliating. But it doesn't work. You assume all the things said to be a white lie. You rather want to believe the things that were said, other than the ones which are being said now. Your mind goes bonkers trying to figure which version to trust more - the person you knew them to be, or the ones they've turned into. And even when your retaliation gives up and crashes down in front of you, the only thing you want to do is strangle them till the marrow of their bones until they break down like a lifeless plant and gather them back together to make them whole again; to be the one who makes them whole again. Because frankly, we all want to be that somebody to someone. So when you aren't anymore, you feel lost. The entire point of hanging in the middle of nowhere, in the dark freaks you out. 

We all build up our own defences and stay well within the fencing to avoid becoming that somebody to someone. But someone does come along the way, who breaks all your capsule with the mere touch of their fingers, breaking it into half and pulling you out of there. And none of your control buttons help you then; they all go about short-circuiting. And the worst part is that they know it. Then your heart numbs out and your brain feels paralysed. They further go ahead and do something stupid like catch you crying, or know your favourite book, or stay up till sunrise with you, or just as simply as hold you. And then you build up your own world, which you think is your haven and escape from the world. You wonder what was it about them that turned you upside down. You constantly run your brains through the field of possibilities assuming what is happening to you. Your mind bluffs with you and makes you believe that they're the reason behind all the changes. So when the bad part takes place, you want to figure out the possible reasons of them doing all the things they did to you. And that's where we lose it.

They never do anything. It's us. It's all us. From the beginning till the end. I hardly trust people, but when I do, I instill my utter faith in the person that they are. And it takes a lot of courage out of me to do that. So when it's broken, I not only hurt myself, but others too. I'm reckless, always have been. I'm the only one thing in my life I'm not careful with. I gave too much, and maybe you didn't need any of it, or so I make myself believe. So by the end of it, all you had was my crap load of shit, which suffocated you. Sometimes trusting someone enough makes you trust yourself to be a nice person. And it was all my fault. You didn't hurt me. I hurt me. 

I didn't let you in. I should have. You did. But I should have. The point is, that nobody an change you. Not even you. Love doesn't mean changing the crap out of someone. And the contrary is what I made you believe. So I realised maturely enough that I'd failed, yet again. Because love is when you enhance, add up to the person they already are. You certainly did add to me. You turned me into a better person, now and then. But I distant you with the fear that I was changing you. You were strong enough to stand up for having something better for yourself; I'm not that strong. And you deserve to have someone strong, who'll never be afraid to give you everything without any hesitation. So, yeah, you walking out was justified. I've had unparalleled moments of silence and solitude with you, which I'll remember forever. I don't have a legitimate reason not to. And it was never awkward at any point, because you understood my language. 

I wish I could have helped in making it meaningful for you, or been worthy enough of you. Out of all the discoverable ways I found to hurt myself with, you're my favourite of all. But you will never have the indulgence of the monotonous, lulling ache that you've given me. You're dangerous, because you made me do and believe in the impossible. Because you're unfailingly the most beautiful person I've come across, unaware of your own power. And I'm terrified of you. I've learnt a lot my simply discerning you, spotting what you say, and not say. And the moment you barged in, you provided for the soul that had long left my body. They say, if a writer falls in love with you, you never die. And you'll always be alive, even in the wee twilight hours when I'm horrified of sleeping. I still believe you to be surreal. But for each time you uprooted my mind by saying just enough stupid things to make me smile, I adore those moment, because they were so human. It's possible that you'll meet more people who'll appreciate you for the person that you are, or might not. But that will never have anything to do with you. Remember that. There will come a time when I might stop loving you, of course. But I will still choose you, day after day after day. Because you brought me to fruition my own world, a world, I admit, was afraid to carry with me. I'm still more you than me. I don't care if you're lathered in the mud of your mess, or safe under your stability blanket, for me, your existence has done a far better job than anything healthy ever could. I guess it was our silence that drew us closer. And I'm still more comfortable in sitting with you in silence, listening to music and do absolutely nothing, than read or write. Thank you, I guess, for sharing my solitude. We'll always be like the horizon; we can only seem to meet each other. And you'll always find me with you in your silence. Because your silence always had a meaning. You were the missing piece to my puzzle. I think you have a way with people. You know how to not make them forget you. I understand now what you meant. The fear of happiness is the worst form of fear ever. You stormed my calm brain, and you'll always be at home in there. Everyone has a secret inside of them. You're my big secret, and always will be.

Love,
Ak.