If I could read one’s eyes or mind, and that when they were clearly and in broad daylight displaying their feelings of discomfort or worries, they’d probably say: ‘you don’t understand what I’m feeling.’ Either tones of hysteria would travel across to the ends of wherever you were or tones of disdain towards you will come instead. Reactions come in various aspects and the unpleasant one are more noticed. May I assume, that you understand as well?

Resuming the former story-telling, it was as if that one with a sense that the feeling of dislike, hate or sadness were none existent beside me. I’d guess with mild certainty that in their eyes I was a relaxed, worriless (?) kind of human being. (The world is full of irregularities and theories after all) As all I would’ve asked was but a single sentence: Are you alright?

The path that would’ve led to an awkward situation as such is that when they reply much will spill but never blood. Although rare, something more unexpected, sinful. A natural response would be to support the claimed victim of worry or problems. Advise them, comfort them, is it not what they want? Crave, in a more desperate sense. That and when you give them an unwanted answer, words that do not wish to hear. Yours would be brushed off, the people that do not listen, they deny as if it were the end of the world and the acceptance of such a fact drove them to madness. A consolation prize, your intentions were delivered but with a price. Such as the non-existent appreciation of your efforts; what you once was, a person of reliability, an object of anger and mocking to vent upon.

I and many others (hopefully) had a policy of acceptance. No matter how ugly, egoistical, selfish that person were to be. He or she was still him or her. Part of them, like their heart, for example. Another as it was a part of their origins in a fact that a parent’s sins could not be blamed unto the child birthed from them. The choices of blame towards another taken in consideration of the last statement however, were unruly and unfair in a sense. I would not dislike or hate him/her. Yet, I wouldn’t like or love him/ her either.

That person would be but an existence, on this world, beneath its skies. I stand or neutral ground.

It was (is) a foolish ideal. It was pretty much confirmed that the careless use of language and words drifts like the amount of garbage stacked on the surface of the sea. The one in who-knows-where, forming an island full of filth. A hypocrite I was, as well as many others. Some aware some not. We use words in a sense that we take it for granted, from what? Would be asked. I don’t know, in all honesty. It just is and I realised.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Taking in negative aspects in consideration even the description of couches would prove better worth, hate was a heavy word. And if possible, I’d never use it. Hate was one with a lot of responsibilities, and sadness. To hate someone and to dislike are 2 very different things. Hate. The word is sorrowful, heavy and nothing but a burden. And to hate someone by outward appearance was disgusting. And if the person was truly hateful on the inside, why can’t dislike be just enough. No one can change it anyway, so why hate? It’d bring no miracles nonetheless. Dislike in comparison is a shallow wound. One that’ll still (could) heal. It may leave a tiny scar but it won’t affect one’s daily life whatsoever. A sudden trip. But of course, it’ll hurt a bit. And like every cut or bruise, it’ll heal. Unless ones white-blood cell try too hard to heal it or maybe even the exact opposite. Either leads to undeniably unpleasant results.

Hate is a slit to the throat. And it bleeds. Much is lost.

I’d imagine a very lonely world, one with lesser beauty. Pitch black, dark. That was hate, it blinds others. One to the point that they’ll see no light. But then, even the darkness has its own beauty. And just like the dark, chilling night, we find it beautiful. Besides, not everyone takes comfort in the light.

But then in those skies there would be stars. Light. A barely breathing hope.

It’ll be easy to say: ‘I’m sorry’ but then, how sorry are we really? And how much of the other’s darkness can we truly light? How much can we heal, patch up? Words hold so much power; and when someone throws a thoughtless light around with not so much a single consideration of its actual meaning, I and maybe, preferably others as well would get a tendency to feel selfishly upset. Would’ve it felt a little less egoistic if told in a story’s point of view and not through ‘I’? Or would’ve ‘I’ just have been but another aspect of another story as well?

Sadness is blue,

With a touch of relief.

And through it, a rise.

Or fall.