“Metaphors are extended comparisons,” our English teacher was telling us a few days back. I couldn’t tell her, Green had made metaphors a way of life now. I believe in quotes and metaphors, more than I believe in people, and definitely more than I believe in myself.
I fell in love when I was sixteen; I could have walked in it, jumped, hell, I could have dived in it, but my heart chose to fall. But strange as it may seem, inspite of all the charcoal sheets and smudged eyes, I do not repent it, not one part of it. Falling was necessary.
It’s a love hate relationship, I say, me and words. How cleverly they wipe off the dusted edges, and how cruelly they bore their knuckles deep within your skin. How with a single word, you cry out of happiness or laugh in hysteria. How words make you hungry, for more, and then some more.
I’m hungry for starvation. I want to feel how it’s like to be heartbroken, but isn’t that what I’ve been feeling since I don’t even know when? Actually, I do. That moment, that precise, accurate, definite moment when I heard the sound of my bones cracking up under the weight of grief, and vested in somewhere, the feeling of defeat. I’d lost to life, yet again.
But I’m more than the last chapter, I’m the epilogue. I’m more than the malady, I’m the cure. I’m more than your favourite song, I’m the prelude. I’m more than the words scribbled on my desk, I’m a metaphor. I’m more than my heartbreak, I’m a life.
I know it gets difficult, but tell me, does anything worth keeping come easy? It never does, never will. But I might as well tell you, there’s more to life than passive smoking.