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  • Writer's picturevarsha alimchandani


You touch the smoking hot water or ice-cold water, because you don’t believe what your eyes see, you run to your senses for confirmation. It is your senses that give you pain or soothe, and you believe it to your heart all your life. You walk with it and you recommend it. A turn comes where you find the comfort, you find the right human, with a lot of caution, with a lot of burns, with a lot of wasted time. This person brings out the best in you, you call it third love, and you begin to rationalize all the past experiences that failed you. There comes a day when this person just changes his or her whole personality, all the reliance beneath your feet collapses like an earthquake. Your life crumbles and then you say that you never saw it coming. You have endured many earthquakes, but this time you curse yourself more. For looking for a permanent home, for wishing to be human, imperfect, and still hold the ground, hoping to be deemed worthy of being held. The ground shakes, along with all the weight of your love, it wants to be understood and relieved. But you cannot get over the pain of your home being shattered to pieces. In spite of your tears, you give it the benefit of the doubt, and you attempt to rebuild your home, because how many times have you not repaired every corner of it? Because someday when you are shaken and lose yourself, you would want someone to give you an ear too. If you could be understood that you haven't always been this way, and this is not who you are, you would want that chance so badly. So you love, with very less hope and very high hope. You cannot tell if you would win or lose big without investing, you do it anyway. You don’t even believe in your senses anymore; you call it fate. You don’t believe in gravity anymore. Yet it pulls you again. You hate your senses. You hate yourself for feeling. But you are too stubborn to just live in any house. A part of you bleeds and bleeds but does not die. Piece by piece you trade yourself, to find brick by brick of how you want it to be. You offer the dust that builds up every day, despite how much you cleanse. You wish but a small patch of ground for yourself, every time you run and hold it, it secures you.

But why the ground was ever obliged to hold you back? The home you built never was identical, because you never trusted your eyes. There was no faithfulness from your pain- no one believed it - no one remembered it. Yet you held it so close, you lived it every time. For your life, you remained loyal to it above all else.

While you looked for the ground, you found it everywhere and everyone you touched. Because you looked for the pain there, and you chose it carefully. While you planted and watered it, it outgrew and crossed your boundaries, Your walls were penetrated and loosened, entire structure was threatened.

You ran, you ran for your life, when it all collapsed, dark and cold, every part of you engulfed, you hid. You sheltered where you could not see anything in the darkness, but all you saw was darkness. You wished to fall asleep and didn't have to wake up anymore. You tried and tried but you never slept well. Sleeping or not, you were unable to wake up to reality.

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