Skip to main content

A Week After The Valentine's


I haven't understood love. As we grow up, our perception of love and life differs greatly. Often, we tend to overshadow one with the other, and that is exactly where we make mistakes.
Balance. Balance. Balance. It's everything we want.
What's worse, is that we are flawless humans, which means we have a chain of imperfections and we constantly need someone to appreciate them.
Why, I wonder, can't we do it ourselves?
My greatest struggle with self is acceptance. Appreciation. I'm divided. I want to show people that I am divided. Then I want them to love me even more. That's love for me.
Valentine's day comes and goes, yet not a single day do you accept yourself.
We leave the job of loving ourselves to each other. We praise each other, talk at lengths about each other, find ourselves in each other. Because we chose the other, before ourselves. We tend to sink in the gravity of someone else's affection. It's our world, it's someone else's sky.
We are never the centre of ourselves.
When you part with someone, you miss every inch of the other.
No. You don't.
You're just too afraid to go back to the person you'd left.
Too afraid to go back to yourself.
You've been empty for so long.
Hold yourself.
Your Valentine's day hasn't arrived, yet.


-Anushruti Adhikari 
Labels:

Comments

  1. UnknownJune 29, 2017 at 1:25 AM

    It is good , Anu

    ReplyDelete
  2. Bhaskar DhakalMay 14, 2018 at 11:07 PM

    Absolutely delightful. Strong words presented very well. Love it. I love your style.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Squiggles and Scribbles of Sashi

Sashi woke up today, annoyed and at 4 a.m. Her thinning blanket somehow turned over and her oiled-up feet were exposed to the ruthless chills of Magh. She angrily switched on the light, as if to scold the walls and windows of her room for the restless night.  Her belongings in the one-person rental flat are quite minimal, although symmetrically pleasing, like something straight out of a Wes Anderson movie, only, without the colours. Her clothes, from her mother's sarees to her work uniform had to put up a fight with her undiagnosed O.C.D; even the softest of the fabric was disciplined into a neat pile.  Her bathroom had nothing more than a single soap, dry on one side and slimy on the other. Her toothbrush, however, looked more worried, for the woman brushed ferociously, disappointed at her slightly yellow teeth which were now accompanied by often bleeding gums.  Her kitchen was completely empty, as she had decided not to eat in her room. The ventilation in the tiny flat was awful,
2 comments
Read more

When Charlie decided

When Charlie decided to die, his bagpack lost its painful weight of monotony and helplessness. A man standing behind him shoved his way to the front, nearly pushing him out of balance. Strong stench of tired armpits spread across the bus, mixing with the smell of diesel and something rotten. But Charlie had decided to die. So it was okay.   So how should he die?   When he reached his room, he undressed himself to nothing and looked around. His clothes were either dirty or unfolded. Ramita didi who would have to clean them tomorrow. Surely, she’d be the first to know about dead Charlie, but why would she clean the clothes of a dead man now?   He washed his dirty clothes and hung them to dry. The rest were ironed and folded neatly.   The day they find Charlie’s body in the room, Paale dai might look around and see these untouched pairs of shirts and pants, then decide to take it for his son.   He opened his fridge. The old broken machine smelled of milddew,
1 comment
Read more

She blamed for and I had

It’s better to write, because no person will read it further than three lines. It’s better to write, because somehow I can talk about why I think we are at a continuous crisis, why I believe that there is no free will, and I can leave it on a piece of paper with my bank account number scribbled right in the middle, and I can walk away, with the paper still at the restaurant table, hot and waiting for the customer who will sit there next, and somehow, the next day, next week, next month, my money will still be untouched, unbothered, asleep.   I may not be a writer, but I call myself one because that’s how I get paid. For me, the definition of a writer is as confusing as the definition of feminism, and somehow, strangely, I believe I become less of a writer the more I write.   My concepts aren’t tempting, my opinions aren’t critical, and I become a slower reader by every passing year, trying, desperately, to make meaning of what I just read: She   blamed   for  
2 comments
Read more