What A phase can do to you.

Posted by isha verma
July 5, 2017

Self-Published

And I wonder, what can a phase do to a person? Test the resilience of each and every broken cell of the body? Swollen eyes, dying hope and a dark place you call your bed. With those teary-wet pillow covers and empty coffee mugs, you lose yourself once, that is called a Phase.
When there’s no reason why you stick to the bed and pile up clothes and responsibilities in a corner, as if you want them to be the evidence of your misery. My phase took me to the part of my life where being ALIVE was questionable. Each second was a different pain, each memory was a different story and each tear drop was a sad song. For days locked and dark, it wasn’t much of the deal as I was making it, I could have been better a lot more better, at least I was breathing.
I had everything that time, yet it felt like gravity had a different intensity for me that time that I succumbed deeper into myself.
If I cried, I cried for myself, it felt like the burden of each dead scar on my body reappeared and it was just a blow to it. It felt like the graves of my past bad memories have all taken a new life to haunt me down again. But it was a phase, it was just a phase, it could have been worse. But when that phase ended, it left me with a proud glittery self-esteem or probably a way of life that I wouldn’t have been like, if and only if that phase wouldn’t have appeared. It was sad, the phase, but I loved it.

The phase made me do things, that I wouldn’t have done otherwise. For me it was my world that turned upside down. For a reason we all trust blindly, once for all, and we can never in our deepest senses believe that the person will never hurt us. But he did, they all do, they all do hurt you in some way or the other. And I remember him saying, ‘at least I didn’t cheat’.

The subject of the motion is not what someone did, it is what I did to myself. I wonder how madly and deeply I used to behave, I remember myself, I remember myself drunk in the power of it. It is ironic that the light I lit, blinded me first. To even collect my courage together and write how gravely I was affected by something so irrelevant was difficult.

But when I recollect it all, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that I fell so deep, I probably had too much pain and I found him responsible for being the source of my happiness for all of those dullest days. I accepted him as a relief to myself, after all I was grateful, I was grateful to the Universe to have him. Probably I still do, my phase that has taught me everything wouldn’t have occurred if he hadn’t accepted my affection and then discarded it forgetfully.

But phases are the things we are left with. For how would we love the touch the petals, if our fingers were never bruised from the thorns.

 

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