In the midst of giggles and laughters and friendships and plans to escape town and good news of employments and graduations and accomplishments, there is one news that has sunk my heart and I can’t seem to sit well with it until I let go of it in words.
It’s a little girl I know. I don’t know her well, or personally. But she is related to someone I care about deeply. I guess not all bonds in life have a definition, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I am sad and upset because I have been hearing things, and I saw things… and I become an omniscient observer sometimes and detach myself from the variables that define me. I become a zero vector, out of which all things project on to different planes. All lines come out of me, and while sitting at the origin of life, I see my story, my people and my events.
Children – I love them. I love them enough to not have them, or want them desperately. Most of you might find that absurd. I just find it sensible. Children are not symbols of love. It is a farce created by society – you know the idea that the conceivers are two adults in love. They are not. Most of the time the conceivers are just drunk, stupid, or a target of bad circumstances.
Most of the time children come in to this world out of anything but love. Children conceived with love are more of an exception.
Do I love children? Yes I do. I love them a lot. No, it’s not cz they are cute. I love children because their existence resembles my idea of an ideal existence. They are blank slates, a canvas waiting to be turned in to spectacular things. Give them reason, an open atmosphere and an avenue to walk on, and they will show the ability to think and question most lies of the world, including that one big one about God.
Talk in front of them and they will decipher your body language. Tell them a lie and they will crush you with the truth. Children are the purest form of humans that exist. Children are precious. They’re good. Very good. They’re good enough to scare me.
Children teach the meaning of love, honesty, hope and helplessness to us every day. They are the journal of life. When they are gone, or in pain, my heart cries out. I feel afraid of an unknown force. I feel afraid of the possibility that I might one day find myself doing a child wrong, unknowingly. What if I become a parent? The idea terrifies me. At one end is a work of art waiting to happen, and on the other is the healthy odd that the picture I paint will blind me…