The Light By Which I Am Born

moonMy Sun and Stars,

Is it strange that my beauty is your gift to me? Is it outrageous to accept that it is in you that I see a reflection of all that is good in me, and that without you I am estranged?

I am afraid it is the truth.

You found me wounded and scarred, discovered me in the vacuum filled darkness of space and time, and healed me. You made me laugh and cry and rejoice and express the songs of my soul, and gave life to my dreams little by little. Your ways – subtle and natural, your love- impeccable. Never before had I known what real happiness feels like, and that it can be induced by the simplicity of a certain glittering smile.

As I rest in the lap of emptiness, I am filled with a continuous glee, given simply by your existence. It is indulged by the confidence of knowing that each young day, you shall rise, and capture me in your warm embrace, and for those still moments in time, I shall let your love humour me.

In the sound of your heartbeat I have found complete peace, and to be with you, is all I wish to do anymore; all my other dreams seem so little and obscure before this colossal desire. No star will ever let me shine the same way that you have, and none ever has. You have torn away from me my fear of the dark, and put in its place an immeasurable love for the dusk. I, the proprietress of time, submit to the clock each day in your wait.

You have taught me, unconsciously, that I must take that lovely chance, that I must be brave to fall in love, that I must shine and escape the walls of blackness that shutter my heart. And though the probability of things falling apart is inordinate, the prospects in the case they do not are gloriously marvellous. But of this you shall forever remain unaware, my fathomless star, for I am wordless as I am imperfect, and incomplete are my words.

Albeit, words unfold on paper today, unlike ever before, but perhaps it is just a fortunate night.

So, I must cease the moment to thank you, my love, even though it does not in the least quantify my passions. Thank you, for glowing upon me blessedly like omnipresent time in the dark of the night. Thank you for pasting the bruises I make on the sea, and the thunder I roll upon dusk – you have tolerated my habitual imperfection, my flaws, my mistakes and sloppiness with the grace of your ever-powerful love; it has made me want to be better, it has made me look at myself and wonder in thoughtful starlight of pathways to be my best self, and to be less reliant and less savage, so that I can at least begin to deserve the magnum of love that you have given me openly and without hesitance.

Thank you for being my strength love, for helping me shine brighter than the beautiful glow-worms, and the truest stars, and leading me to believe that I am the brightest star in the sky, that I am more beautiful than I know, that within me too is a sparkle that can be admired, and that I can, if I try, be more infinite than the galaxy of self-criticism which contains me.

Today, I can dream your dreams and look into your eyes, and surrender to the labyrinths they house without fear, for you my love are my strength, and my entirety, and it might seem bizarre that to me, getting lost in you is to be found. I will love you tomorrow as I love you today for the love you have shone upon me. I will love you as much as this infinite space, and I will love you more. I will love you now, and I will love you a lot, and I will love you always my moon.

And yes, as the hour of the eclipse draws closer, it breaks me little by little. It scares me because it threatens to pull us apart. As you fade away slowly, farther and farther away from me; my glory recedes with your light. However, today, in a very long time, the narcissism of my heart escapes me, for my love for you is outwardly greater than that – countless like the infinite stars in the Earth-sky. Nonetheless, the promise of the darkness passing, of burning in your sunshine again, fascinates me, as I tumble into love with you one more time.

Does it still seem strange that my beauty is your gift to me? Is it despicable to accept that it is in you that I see the best reflection of myself, and that without you I am unknown? Maybe it is my love, yet it is only true.

Yours Always

The Moon

Leaving [Behind]


It would be fair to call today’s piece’ title fugitive or inconspicuous for that matter. Underneath however is an exploration of truth. I am no defeatist, yet I often come to terms with the understanding that people do always leave. The separation is of course tough, like the pain instilled by the insertion of a strong syringe. But it is not their leaving itself which hurts as much as idea of what they leave behind- memories that imprint themselves on the mind’s eye- which stays with one like the shadows of an immortal scar.

Sometimes, when people enter your life, they gradually gain importance and claim space. Certain things become bounded rituals, to be shared with only particular personalities. They help us create our own stories, and a treasure chest full of personal jokes. It is with the people we meet in our lives, that we paint memories and live moments that we later come to recollect, smile and weep instinctively at the thought of. Secrets get filtered, and the darkest ones are reserved for sharing with a few closed ones. We break our walls, we trust them with blind faith, we save the currant on our priced pastries for them. Had we known, that distance will grow us apart from those whom we are closest to, I wonder how different our respective paths of friendship would have been.

At times, when people leave they leave behind spaces that are probably too large to be filled. The time we spend with people – friends, family, strangers- is the strange leaf from the oak tree. It dries with passing time and weakening roots, but it never leaves the branch it hangs on. It stays there, the shade of mud, to remind you in pensive stroll of the times you still have with the people you have lost.

I wish people came with statutory warnings. That would have made things so much easier, but I guess it is this difference which makes us all human, causes of each other’s suffering, and fragile in our own way.   

People always leave, they said. I kept my head high, and like mice to the piper’s tune, followed the beat of my heart. I wept in heartbreak, and struggled through rejection. I stumbled and stuttered when people left, yet I believed I could go on. Not everyone leaves; the ones who are supposed to stay always find a way to, I told myself. But more than once on occasions of separation I have inwardly doubted my own optimism.

Yes, we all would agree that it hurts when people leave. There is deep sadness when people go away from our lives. But for me, there is no pain greater than that of realising once and for all what it is that they have left behind.

So then, are people who come into your life nothing but impersonators? Are people always meant to leave?  And do they deserve the space we give them? Do questions even make a difference?

I have to tell you, I do not have an answer to any of those. But then, I am afraid of finding these answers myself. The possibility of their not being to my likes troubles me. So for now, I choose to believe in a version which makes me happier. No, people do not always leave. But when they do, they always leave something behind. And that bitter truth is the only consolation we can afford.