Of Beauty And Of Pain

You are, after all, a sliver of this universe. A tiny minuscule speck seeking command of this infinite universe of terrible nothingness.
You talk of order while stars collapse around you and planets burn themselves.
Countries wage wars and sons kill their fathers.
Brothers turn into addicts and corpses while sisters become blanks and pillars.
Faces lose to acid and lives make love with bullets.
Children loose to cancer and there existed ones who jumped from thirteenth floors and wanted to live just before they kissed death’s enticing full lips.
The quiet of a family gathered around the blacks and whites of the headstones of coffins that lay six feet beneath ours, a place which would be our last home, one day.
Behind those closed black curtains, there exists her. She breaks and tears of blood as red as red wine, seep from her thin, delicately white wrists.
She, the one who holds storms of black in her eyes of grey, and drowns every night and doesn’t make it to the sandy shores by the morning, as the curtains open and the pink and gold of the sun find her face, but not her skin. She, who hasn’t made it to the calm eye of the tornado, who wakes up day after wretched day, silently praying and pleading and fervently hoping for that 10 year old apparition of her father to walk back in through those sun kissed doors.
The one who was left on the doorway, the threshold, his graceful fingers stretched out towards the shadow of a retreating figure who doesn’t even look back once, wanting to grasp at the lone stray thread of her rose gold sweater, wanting to unravel all the cold, and bare naked, the person who’d once loved his darkness more than his light.
You write of pain, of hurt, of anguish, of ruin. You write to enforce a system, a way of emotions, to bring order.
But tell me, you who read these words in my black ink on this white parchment, tell me, do these words not turn beautiful?
Don’t talk to me of order. There is none.
There is only hate, the purest form of love.
Then there is love.
There is death.
There is fear.
And you talk to me of systems and order.
You talk to me of half baked truths.

– Shabnam Mondal

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