There was a slight difference in the way he handled queries about their relationship compared to how she did it. Slight difference, mind you.
Her: I love him. He loves me. Period.
Him: We are “good friends”. Period.
She wasn’t a slave to the world’s perception about them; she made herself vulnerable and wasn’t ashamed of what they had. It is, indeed, a pity that he would never experience that kind of madness.
Sadly, in the end, the fake worldly honor mattered much more.
And there she was. Crushed, cursed, devastated. She had thought that she had finally met a match, a mirror, a man who would outrival her courage… but she hadn’t…
It was a mask yet again.
It was a spineless wimp yet again.
It was a love of convenience yet again.
I wonder how some people choose to suffer and fake it all their lives only because it is inconvenient to stand up and be! Convenience over fierce passion? What a sad choice would that be!
“You have to try the herb once, it takes you places,” her friend told her. It did take her places. Places that were shattered, broken and full of excruciating pain.
I want magic. I want madness. I want “you”.
Her friend told her to write bravely. She wrote, “He said he loved me and I believed him. I loved him, I hope he loved me too… even if it was for a moment, I hope he loved me too… the way I loved him.”
I will never know for sure if music eases or aggravates a lover’s pain. It is difficult, almost impossible, to define the function of music; but an existence without it seems preposterous… it satisfies a primal need to feel, to feel till you bleed out all those emotions… and then feel some more.