the activity or sport of balancing on a rope or strip of webbing that is fixed high above the ground but not stretched so as to be taut.
She was a one-woman balancing act; tiptoeing on a tight rope suspended between where she was and where she is meant to be – both ends smothering her with a kaleidoscope of emotions, neither too far.
Proximity was taunting – how dangerously close she was to falling back on to who she was, and how dangerously close she was to giving up the bleak familiarity of where she was.
She was balancing the weight of her being on her tiptoes and just as she was taught to when dancing as a child. She was stuck in a moment of clarity with a flicker of love being the only strength that kept her from losing momentum.
Love was the song that made her heart beat faster, love was a story that forced tears down her cheek, love was the hand that held her while she was struggling for breath, love was the long embrace that came with the promise of safety when she was afraid of the demons living inside her.
Love was a shape-shifter; a friend, a lover, a song, a poem.
Love was always around – even on days she failed to see it.
Above all Love was all the broken hearts that so effortlessly love as if they’ve never been hurt before. Love was souls with rough edges and dark corners giving it all they have to make sure no one feels the pain they once felt.
For her, Love was a brigade of brave broken hearts saving each other time after time and calling it love.
The scars in her soul were starting make their way on to her skin. On the tip of a ink-gun she found the bullets that would kill the silent void that was screaming inside of her. First she drew a heart on her wrist; a tribute to love, a love that she had so much of and, none of which had her.
Love was relative, love was derivative.
Love was an assumption, an implication.
Love was many things but never ever apparent.
Love was attention to detail;
love was noticing that she had gained two-pounds over the summer vacation. Reminding her that maybe she should watch her weight.
Reminding her that other girls weren’t that fat.
Reminding her that boys don’t like that.
They dished out love like sloppy seconds at a soup kitchen; it wasn’t the kind she deserved, but it was abundant. Their love was a poisoned apple that she took a bite off, their love was a poisoned apple that she regurgitated for the next few years to lose that extra two-pounds. Their love was a poisoned apple that turned her insides out while she starved herself in fear that would meet those two pounds again.
But, she was an artist;
painting love over faces that were familiar –
If they are around, they must love.
She was a poet;
looking for love in between lines –
it must be out of love, it has to be.
She was art,
in the way she was able to see love in the untidiest corners.
She was poetry,
in the way she so fluently spoke in love as if she’s never known anything but love.
She was a walked around with a promise of love that everything that came in contact with her would bloom back to life. She walked around with the promise of love as if to compensate to the love that she never had. She has stocked up love in place of the extra-two-pounds she shed and lends it unconditionally to everyone she meets along the way despite their rough edges, skinny souls or minds that carry an extra-two-pounds.
Somewhere in between where she was and where she wants to be;
she’s holding on to love from the skies and the seas to keep her from running back,
she’s clinging to the hope of love from more skies and seas to keep her running to.
He was a meticulous juxtaposition of pros and cons. Each he saw, each he owned.
He wore his flaws like a garland, but his flaws were subdued by all the colours of his soul.
He turns to the familiar comfort, draws an ear around her and hopes she hears. She draws him in to a warm embrace and as he pulls in places a mirror in front of his face. Leaving him face-to-face with all his scars, fears and flaws; vulnerable like never before.
And at night, when the world is asleep and silence is plenty, the white noise of the streets knocked on the doors of his mind. He lets them in reluctantly and they sit with him through the night. They speak in what-ifs, they speak in if-nots, they speak out loud – all at once as if anxiety was their mother-tongue. He listens, while each of their voices find their way inside him and subdues the colours of his soul, leaving his flaws vulnerable and apparent. He stares at the mirror-image she unveiled for him, now imprinted on his retinas like a nightmare he can’t wake up from.
So he sits with them till morning sun comes, nursing his wounds in a corner of his head.
But he wore is flaws like a garland; an act of rebellion in an age where everyone was redacted to fit the frame.
Because his flaws weren’t wounds but scars that reminded he was resilient
and just as no one could look at shattered glass and deny the beauty that its patterns made,
no one could deny that his resilience had morphed him in to work of art.
He was contagious smiles one minute and crippling anxiety the next.
But he was resilient above all;
always finding his way back to contagious smiles.
And even with a knife still stuck in his back, he had to pick himself up to be there for others.
He was always there for others,
he was always there.
But when the blood ran rivers around him and he felt himself sinking the quicksand of betrayal, he pulled of the knife and wrote an eulogy to the past. He walked away, bruised but whole.
He was standing on crossroads, vulnerable like never before. Between love and pain, he chose to walk with love. And every time, he kept choosing love and in time, love chose him right back.
He loved so effortlessly and loved everything with such profundity. Never did he ever try to rearrange the building blocks of someone else’s mind to fit his narrative. He loved them as they were, he loved them as is.
He was always the kind of person people made homes of; honesty was his religion and you knew you could trust him with your rough edges. And when the world tried so hard to blacken his soul and use his love as a weapon against him, he retaliated with the lethal cocktail of love and forgiveness that darkness didn’t stand a chance against his light. He was home, he was safety, he was love.
She was a one-woman balancing act; tiptoeing on a tight rope suspended between where she was and where she is meant to be – both ends smothering her with a kaleidoscope of emotions, neither too far. She was stuck in a moment of clarity with a flicker of love being the only strength that kept her from losing momentum. And the flicker of love came from broken hearts that loved like they’ve never been hurt before. The flicker of love came from broken hearts that were brave enough to believe in love, and be the love they always deserved but never received.
She was a one-woman balancing act; tiptoeing on a tight rope suspended between where she was and where she is meant to be – saved by a flicker of love, time and time again.