The young, thought Sharma, have this ability to suffer much in the time of grief, unlike the old who have seen enough sorrow and know it shall not stay forever. The young hardly know grief is like a thunderstorm. It comes whispering softly at first, a distant hum, a halo of vehemence in the sky, and then there is a sudden, violent, and copious outpouring; that drenches everything that comes in its way. It darkens the sky and turns every inch of green terrain dusky grey. But they don’t realize its ferocity will become less with the lapse of time, and the sun will shine bright and warm, and wash the land golden, and no one would be able to tell there had been a storm. They scarcely understand this essential unfolding of grief isn’t meant to last forever, and eventually, it shall come to pass.
Time heals everything, that’s what everyone says. Wounds heal and leave only scars behind. But some wounds run too deep to heal, and pierce the deepest layers of one’s soul. They stay there unhealed and ready to ooze blood at the first sign of grief.
The Hardest Part Not the loving, but the part just after— the remembering when you gathered the broken pieces of what once had been whole and the part after that— the forgetting when you drowned those pieces one by one into abyss.
If You Forget Me if you forsake me I shall forget you too don’t take me for the lone redbud that lay bare behind your window in the garden with branches naked, robbed of life in the dead of winter waiting once again to embrace spring which has forsaken it before.
You must not always believe me when I say I will love you untill eternity because love just like weather does not last forever and you must not ask too many questions because if there is no answer I will be tempted to lie.