Sweetness is alluring. Like the innocence of a rabbit leading you to a dark forest. That pitch dark space where everything leaves you, even your shadow. Happiness isn’t exciting unless it is holding a dagger behind your back and you know about it. Love doesn’t feel passionate unless it is on a deadline. Sorrow is not responsible for any of it. It is the joy that creates all the fear, the inhibitions and its conventions. You don’t feel happy in life unless it wrongs you in some way, you keep feeling there is something wrong. And ultimately when something bad does happen, you love to be the one saying, “I knew it! I knew life would screw me over” and then take pride in the fact that you predicted something negative (which was bound to happen at some damn point later). Why?
The answer lies sometimes in our own insecurities, and other times in the intense philosophies which poets around the world offer time and again as a part of a race to establish themselves as the greatest lovers. They keep giving us yardsticks we cannot match up to. I blame them for making tragedy an integral part of romance; not only that but a necessary and unfortunately, a sufficient condition for some. Now we feel incomplete even when aren’t particularly aware of what is missing, thanks to the instilled poetic insecurities. I blame our own minds too, to always want to see what we cannot see, to feel what only are words out of someone’s cruel mind. We all search only and only for pain, under the garb of seeking happiness. We search solely for chaos while claiming to seek solace. We want only the things we have lost- not the ones we have and certainly not the ones we might be blessed with in the future. Hypocrisy is more a part of us than we would like to admit.