creative writing · literary · literature · love · poetess · poetry · prose · spiritual · words · writer

12:21

Who was I but a clumsy child in love, tripping and falling down on the ground, watering the poor grass with tears made of defeat and hopelessness. Days and nights were both a total blackout when I used to stare at the sky and the moon and the stars had a torturous sight of melancholy that made all my smiles unreachable.

I always thought that the greatest love was to feel and endure it for someone who didn’t have the clue about it, that waiting for years was the best to remain in pain, I never ever saw that there was something more powerful. All those desperate days of looking at a distant horizon was not just a dream of a far away destiny but a searching for the beyond.

How beautiful, how supernal it is to suddenly find yourself by seeing someone you didn’t realize you’re looking for but felt a sense of coming back to where you just left and what you’ve forgotten all this time. Like your eyes laid on such view of existence and you can hear your voice in your head asking “where did I last see you?”, it’s as if there’s just a brief interval before you met that person once again. 

You even wonder why the hell they’re pulling your inside and you told yourself “if only we knew each other but maybe we should really know each other”, at a single moment of something you vaguely identify is stirring up and you cannot quite settle down with the present reality that you’re not together, that there is a brewing madness in you oddly resenting your separation and differences- you know the face before you even learn the name. 

It’s when you catch a butterfly scene and you want to chase it until it flies back to you because it’s supposed to happen even if it is a new type of a butterfly in the meadow you had not seen before, then in a tiny blink it seems to be the one you’ve always had the pleasure of watching albeit hardly remembering when.

I’ve always construed that love was just a troubling and confusing condition of the heart, the enormous palpitations, and now it’s all clear and wide-open to me that it’s the soul’s journey of returning home, taking back what was lost many lives ago.

To be too broken was to be vulnerable so you could be receptive and resilient enough when the right path knocks on your door no matter how frightening the circumstances will be because even what’s right will have flaws and drawbacks.

They say you cannoy love someone when you do not love yourself but sometimes you just instantly and finally find that someone whose existence grandly inspires you to love yourself more than you ever did before even if they aren’t doing anything-an effortless pouring of grace.

One day, the sun shines brighter, being brand new and full of life. You may wonder and ponder until you rely on the possibility that LOVE truly is a mysterious phenomenon you simply accept and be your infinite faith.

This is just the beginning…
-Nicola An 

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