Therapists, misanthropy and playing the nice card

Recently I came across this website called 7cups.com which is a platform where people can reach out to 'listeners' who can be both untrained yet kind human beings or professional therapists. After talking to a few I came across someone who was actually interested in listening to my woes, which in the end of the conversation made me feel better, light so as to say. It led me to wonder... all these therapists would really run out of business if people's parents and friends actually made the effort to 'listen'. Why, I wonder, is it so hard? Why does one feel the need to 'fix' everything in their close, loved ones when there is really no fixing required. All that the person requires is an ear that listens, a head that makes no judgement and a mouth that does not... speak. 

Humans are the most selfish of the creatures walking this planet. Even in love, worship, which literally means treating someone/something more than 'oneself', they seek self-fulfillment, satisfaction of their own desires. Once upon a time I was not a very nice person, my thoughts and actions were all directed to fulfill my own deepest desires without considering the implications of it. As I grew up though I realized playing the nice card isn't that bad after all, maybe sometimes forgetting your own self-interest can actually make you feel good. Yet being nice is simply an exhausting job in this world full of bastards who constantly try to project their own frustrations into a person they think won't speak up for themselves, won't object to this inhumane treatment just because they choose to be 'nice'. 

The most painful knowledge is that for the rest of my miserable life (which I pray is as short as it comes) I have to deal with these leeches stuck in my brain, a bother. How I wish I was Light Yagami from the anime Death Note and could kill anybody! I'd probably start with the virtue signalers of Facebook, aha. :)  

Mine

This body is mine,

These emotions are mine,

Yet you send me shivering when you take my hand,

Can I call you mine?

This garden is mine,

The white and yellow roses are mine,

Yet you prick like a thorn when I tend to you

Can I call you mine? 

This house is mine,

These freshly red painted walls are mine,

I trap you inside the cages of my heart,

Can I call you mine?

This music I play is mine,

The art I create, just mine,

Each night my head weaving dreams of you,

Can I call you mine?

This life is mine and mine alone,

The air I breathe is mine to be,

But what if I tell you,

That with every breath I take,

I love you more and more,

Are you mine now?

One fine evening

It was one fine evening,
Sitting under a dark tree,
Amidst shared conversations,
I look into your eyes,
Reaching out to your warm hands,
Our fingers entwine,
Adorned with flowers like inseperable vines,
I press my face on your shoulders,
Heave a sigh,
Heaven I smell, heaven is thy!
Your breath like a cool breeze touches my neck,
While you play with my locks of hair,
Your laughter like golden bells jingling in a church,
Your face so heavenly, illuminated with star-dust,
You're my blue skies, my source of moonlight,
My sun and stars and all things bright,
I lean over and kiss your lips,
My insides exploding in a saccharine bliss,
Our lips dancing to the songs of a lark,
Sprinkling sweet sugary kisses,
As we sit making love in the dark.

Kishi's laugh

I didn't know what true happiness was,
Until the day I made my lover laugh,
The peals of his laughter over the phone,
My heart yearned for the sound to be my ringtone,
And over and over again since then,
I make him giggle every now and then,
Picturing his face in my little head,
Eyes glimmering and his cheeks so red,
Like fireworks bursting and filling the sky with lights,
The sound of his laughter illuminates even the darkest nights,
I wish I could capture his laughing face in a polariod,
Because I've known of no greater joy!!!

Sadness

Sadness,
I don't know where it springs from,
But on the eve of Tuesday it came again,
My good old friend sadness,
A friend? Not really.
More like that annoying neighbor that comes knocking when you're having a wonderful sleep,
Causing a disruption,
Refusing to leave,
Sometimes it comes announced,
Like a bad weather forecast the prior day,
Sometimes, not so predictable,
It's like a sudden gush of cold water on a winter morning that hits your skin like electricity,
Some people understand my sadness,
And some do not,
I can't decide who I feel more sorry for,
It's like introducing that bad friend your parents caught you playing with

Through years I've learnt to embrace sadness, 

Not only because fighting it is like snapping a rubber band only to hurt oneself, 

But at times when I feel I'm all I have in this World,

Sadness looms around, 

Smiling at me, 

My good old friend sadness. 

You

Do you know what I dream of?
I dream of watching your face,
In the wee hours of morning,
Your sweet beautiful face

I dream of your eyes,
How they flutter open,
Those soft dove browns,
I drown in their depths

I dream of your hair,
Wisps of them falling on your forehead,
I sweep them off your eyes,
They have entangled my heart

I dream of your illuminated skin,
Sun's rays streaming from the window,
Hitting your skin,
Our bodies sparkle in unison

I dream of your lips,
Slightly apart whispering sweet nothings,
I lean forward,
I kiss them

I dream of such days and nights,
Your face like the sun,
It sets and rise,
I dream of you,
And me,
And our entire lives.

The Whistler by Mary Oliver

“You can never know anyone as completely as you want. But that’s okay, love is better.” -Caroline Paul

When in love, we all ache to know everything about our object of affection, we wish to drown in their deepest sorrows and bask in their sunshiny smiles. Yet it is not possible to completely know the nearest and dearest to us. This poem by Mary Oliver is about the realization that how after three decades of living together, she still didn't know the love of her life completely. 

The Whistler

All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden
I mean that for more than thirty years she had not
whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was
in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and
she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and
cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sounds war-
bled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.

Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she
said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can
still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled
through the house, whistling.

I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and ankle.
Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too
And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin
to know each other? Who is this I’ve been living with
for thirty years?

This clear, dark, lovely whistler?



Source- brainpickings.com