So some guy called me somalian, when I told him am Bengali he proceeded to ask why am I so dark. He asked if I had been on holiday, whether I wore my makeup badly, I said I had no foundation on and hadn’t been on holiday. So he stood their and contemplated on how I was so ‘dark’.
All of this love. Every piece. Every part of all the love in this world. The love they make poems with. The love of spellbinding novel. The love in songs. The love they tried to capture in a movie. The love of a mother for her child, of a child for her father. The love that liberates. The love that enslaves. The love you win. The love you lose. The love you chase. The love you live for. The love you know you’d die for. The love that makes men bleed. The love that swords have killed for. The love of fairytales and tragedy.
It is all just a reflection.
An echo. Of one single Source. Of a single love that you know, and I know, because we knew it before we could know. We were loved before we could love. You were given before you could give or know what it was to give. It is the love that your heart was created to know. It is the love that creates and sustains all love. It is the love that was before—and will remain after all else has passed away.
It is the love that was before…and will remain after all echoes have passed away.
I will lose him.
If I do I know I will get on with life.
Because life goes on,
It doesn’t stop.