from nails to love
Nails! I hate them. Not the rust covered ones that fill
glass bottles that once contained jams of various sorts. Not those that are
battered into wood with a hammer, holding things together. Not those that held
Jesus Christ on to that cross, the nails that were covered in his blood.
Nails! The ones that grow on your fingers and toes. Those
ghastly things that are grown to the most disturbing lengths. I keep my nails short;
cut them constantly, even though at times it makes my skin bleed. The feel of
some one's sharp edged nails on my skin makes me shudder, and more than
once I’ve been tempted to slice them off.
When I went to Jaffna
for four days, I realized on the second night, that my nails needed cutting.
There was no way to find a nail clipper or pair of scissors and they weren’t
astonishingly long to make it seem like an emergency. So I did something I hadn’t
done for years. I bit my nails off. And it was only then that I felt free and
in a way cleaner.
To switch topics, my grandmother recently asked me if I was
in love. “In love or just love?” I asked with a grin. So she asked me if I
loved anyone, in particular, that is. So yes, love, that clichéd, cheesy thing
that makes even the strongest of men fall at the feet of a woman. That makes
even the most intelligent woman lose all senses when face to face with a man.
So what makes liking someone different from loving someone?
And the love for one way different from the love for another? Why is love
sometimes so suffocating, and at other times so freeing? What makes us love,
what makes us worthy of someone's love?
I don’t have the answers, and I don’t want them. And honestly,
does any one know the answers? And would they actually want to know them?
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