It’s the last thread that hurts the most. Mostly because you so want to hold on to it. So you do. But then it gets pulled from the other end very hard. You struggle to keep it still. You tighten your grip. And in that bid, it leaves a bruise on your palm. The one that annoys, hurts yet fails to drive you to tears. You just abhor the partial harmlessness of the bruise. You almost wish it had left a deeper cut. A wound that would have reminded you for a longer time of the pain.

This bruise now is your precious pearl. You don’t want to dress it. You just want it to hurt you every time you touch a flower or hold a bud in your hands. You almost wish it would tear you apart. You dream of an excruciating pain that would transform your selfish heart into something selfless. Pains don’t transform. They turn into a bitter venom when left open. It’s the blatant admission of pain that teaches. It’s the audacity of the tears that washes away the anguish.

But this one, this tiny bruise lacks that abysmal power. You hate it because it is so much like you. It is despicable, almost a humiliation to a much desired deeper feeling. It reminds you of your own shallowness, your egotistic pursuits that sometimes surpass an innocent emotion.

Instead of a virgin anguish, contempt sets in. The bruise breeds an egotistic hurt not a pious repentance. That bruise just forays to get even. To get it straight in black or white. You realize there are many unsettled grays out there. That’s when you begin to hate yourself. You miss the halcyon moments. The times when you weren’t so contemptible afterall. You were a kid, honestly curious and genuinely transparent.

The bliss lasted till you developed a love for kites. You felt like making your kite fly since you couldn’t. You were thrilled by the colours that would adorn the sky while it flew. It drugged you. You craved for it. You wanted it so badly. You forgot the beauty, it’s the lust that lured you. The lust of the lofty heights. The lust of unfathomable pleasures. Alas, there were many like you. You became just one of them, without a purpose, just holding on to an intoxicating pursuit of pleasure. The kite flew higher, the pleasure intoxicated you. That’s when happiness left you while the peaks stripped you of joy. You realize the string is hurting you now. You realize the kite is drifting apart. It’s wayward now just like your heart. You lose the grip suddenly, you realize the string is so small now. It’s almost nightmarish. You now want to hold on to the last part of the string.

That’s what happens whenever you usually pursue an ugly selfish desire. The desire evades, the heart deceives. And you are left with that last thread. And that’s what hurts the most. And you hate that hurt not because of the pain but the lack of its depth.