Sorry, Pablo Neruda. I needed to borrow your lines.
Tonight, I will grieve for the first death of a part of my heart. Stab wounds of yesterday do not compare and yet I remember that the tears are almost the same. If only tears reflect the wounds of the heart, my tears will have turned into blood. And yet I can still think of worse things so the bloodless tears become acceptable.
It is just a small matter. But a matter that is close to my heart. A matter I hold dear. There are very little things in life that I am passionate about. Because the pain is being inflicted by someone in my heart as well, I can breathe the pain. It is only the smile of my little one that keeps me in check. Even now, as I write. I still know that I shall not be killed. I shall become stronger.
What love can stand the pain of a loved one? Even if there is no sense of permanence and no intention of perpetuity to that pain. It is sad that it is intentional and re-directed towards my own weakness. A taunt. A carrot dangled in front of a horse who wants a radish.
For the first time, I felt scared of my complacence. Suddenly, I have to snap of it. Is this the wake up call then? How do I remove the rose colored glasses but see the rose just the same? Dear Lord, help me.
Tonight, I will cry to the best of my ability. I need to. So that tomorrow I will begin the fight. Onwards. Henceforth. Until there is no longer a need to do so. If the pen is indeed mightier than the sword then my chances are great.
Lord, grant me strength that someone else needs more than I do.
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