The Silent Masquerade

Pretending to pretend to pretend to pretend to pretend

Original piece - Mask Of Silence (Reed pen, red and black ink)

That you don't ache for him the way he aches for her.

The Invisible Line

Sometimes, you look at someone who's probably the closest thing to you since God-knows-what, and you can't help wondering if it's all just fizzled out. The spark that was so alive when you were just getting to know each other, it seems to have gone out. Conversations seem to run dry faster than ever, fading away in a sick spiral of curtness and cool detachment. Is it because you no longer have an obligation to be engaging? Is it because you both take the friendship for granted? Is there an invisible line that you somehow cross when you grow too close after which the only choice is to grow apart?
Sometimes, if you're lucky, you're close enough to risk asking those questions. And sometimes, if you're lucky, you get just the right answer. The answer that puts everything into perspective. The answer that you never knew you needed to hear.

"Tell me something."
"Ask."
"Why are we friends?"
"Because we're there for each other."

And that invisible line you were so afraid of crossing? That's the beautiful part. It's when you cross that line that your relationship ceases to revolve around how much you have in common, or how well you get along, or even how similar your sense of humour is. Once you cross that line, it's about how much you care.
How willing you are to be there for each other.
Nothing more, Nothing less.

Of Ember and Flame

She turns her eye inwards, if only for a moment.
Ashes and dust. Dust and ashes. That's all she sees.
She can almost taste them, too. In the back of her throat.
They taste of regret and words unsaid. He doesn't know this, and he probably never will, but there are embers still burning under her deceptively placid layer of ashes and dust. Dust and ashes.
And if you look hard enough, you see they're still alive, with a quiet, muted glow. They're still waiting, it seems. No matter how much she wants them to stop, to just fade away, they refuse to. They're waiting for him to breathe life into them, so they can glow that much brighter. Ember to flame. Flame to inferno.

Fear

Of losing the ability to care.

If I didn't care, where would my inspiration come from?

If I bled my muse dry with apathy and indifference, would I still be able to create?

Would I even want to?

Matter of Perspective

Maybe obstinacy is a virtue.
You can always count on the stubborn, headstrong ones to be determined enough to prove you wrong if you doubt their sincerity.

Fleck Of Grey

Today, I noticed a fleck of grey at Baba's temples. Just a fleck, really. Nothing more. He caught my eye and smiled at me. I couldn't help but smile back. One of the things I love about him is that no matter how exhausted he is, he always smiles with his eyes. Always.
I remember when I was younger, I used to pester every grown up into telling me the Chronicles of Adulthood. And while they hemmed and hawed in agitation, not knowing how to explain the complexity of it all to a seven year old, I'd sit there in eager anticipation, oblivious to their evident discomfort.
What they never told me was that a part of growing up was watching your parents grow old.

Worth It

You convince yourself that you can survive this. Even though you're just giving, giving, giving - without asking anything in return. You convince yourself that it doesn't matter if he doesn't reciprocate, and you continue to give, continue to love, even if it goes more or less unacknowledged.

But what you never realised was how much you needed The Other's gratitude till you got it. How much you needed your efforts to be appreciated. To be seen.  How much you needed him to not just hear, but to listen.

And in that moment, when he does, everything else seems so insignificant, because even though he may not reciprocate you know, you just know, that you haven't loved in vain.