Topsy Turvy world

This is a crazy world we live in, where killing children is justified revenge. Where raping women is considered pride. Where fighting religious wars is a noble quest. Where all lines of sanity have been blurred. A crazy world indeed. 

What is love?

Love is not about beauty, not even about mannerisms, or a body. Love is a feeling, that transcends the exterior, goes beyond everything that one projects about themselves to feel touched by the other's soul. Love is a state of being, and a promise that completes you and guides you through life. Love is friendship, companionship, acceptance and trust. What I loved most about you was your mind. And I hoped that you would love me too - when my body was misshapen and my soul was broken... I looked for you. But you were long gone.

Solitude

Being alone scared the hell out of me. But I have now come to realise that there is a strange sense of relief and also freedom in it. To not be answerable to someone for anything can be calming. For the first time in forever, I feel content in just being with myself. Enjoying my own company, and doing things that make me happy. I can truly say that I am a wonderful person in my own right, and I don't need anybody else for affirmation. 

Into the light...

I feel like I have been put under the microscope. Every inch of my being has been analysed, discussed and detailed. Numerous psychological and sociological tests that define my personality have been administered from the beginning of my MBA and I have been laid bare. It has been an uncomfortable experience, sometimes challenging, sometimes irritating and most times frustrating. However, I feel a strange sense of liberation as well. It seems like the darkest parts of my soul have been slowly but surely chipped away. I am now so much happier, more content and far more positive than I was early this year. Something within me has softened. I feel healed. And liberated.

Mirror Image

I am not like her. She has no ambition. She feels defeated, deflated and tired. She looks at the mirror and wonders where her best years went. Sleeps only so she can stop thinking of the what-ifs. I am not like her, a shell of a woman with no will to live. With darkness in her heart and no one to turn to when she feels vulnerable. I am not like her, she is less than perfect, with so many flaws that people look at her and make snap judgements about her whole being. She comes across as harsh, angry at the world and herself for letting people get to her. She stands defeated, nursing her wounds in the privacy of her bedroom. No one sees her tears, only the walls she puts up between herself and other people. She is beautiful in a wildly untameable way. I am not like her, only I am.