An Ode

See the point is, I liked writing how I felt about you. I liked the thrill of emotions it filled me with, the smiles it brought to my face, even the tears. Because those were the few moments in which I lived for myself and myself only. And I guess, that is why, for these simple selfish reasons, it went on for so long.

It's human nature to see yourself as more than others. More empathetic, more in anguish, perhaps even more deserving of better things. To see yourself as different, a dot of colour in a monochrome of grays.

And maybe that is why, I too, gave much more meaning to my thoughts and my feelings than they perhaps deserved. I thought my feelings were different, that they were right by the virtue of being different, that because this 'different' love existed, the world owed it fulfillment. (The irony is, I now realize, none of these thoughts were 'different’. At all. All the people who have ever experienced or will ever experience love unrequited, will think the same)

So maybe, given enough time, I will see all I experienced as what it really is: a lesson learned the hard way. That it is possible for things to feel different and true, and still not be right. And for very selfish reasons again, I need to see you as what you really are too: a human. To put an end to the what ifs, not because of the flaws of yours that, I once reasoned, are there, but on the contrary, because no human deserves judgement from someone who created a bubble around them and willed them to fit in it.

Thankyou for the dreams, and the poetry, and the hollow you filled once simply because you existed (no matter how false or empty it all really was)