On Accepting.

Life has proven how strange she is to me, time and time again. But she is kind to me, this life. She gives me brief moments of repose from all the strangeness that she engulfs me with; but she's always there, reminding me, sometimes gently, sometimes with a jolt, of how the repose isn't meant to be, and strange is what destiny has written for me.

And strange it is.

Who would've believed that I would find myself here one day. I certainly didn't think I could've made it. But I did. It has been anything but grand, but I've made it so far. I keep playing with the words hope, faith, destiny, not because I have nothing else to say, but only because these very words play with me. More often than I can keep up, each time their blow gets more steady, more swift than before; each time their blows get more frequent, and I cannot keep up anymore.

I am tired. And this isn't the tired that some sleep can take away. But I'm tired. From right inside I'm tired. And I don't have the strength to pick up the pieces anymore. I *know* that *this too shall pass*, but I don't believe in the passing anymore. Because once this has passed, there will be something more that I will be waiting to be get past. To leave behind. Another jar broken, another endeavour to pick up the scattered pieces, another series of painful nights, and then gathering myself again.

I simply cannot. Or more aptly, I don't wish to anymore.  I don't want it to pass. I don't want to let go, and I don't want to gather myself anymore.
I want to know that this strangeness will leave me. I want to know that hope and destiny will stop playing with me. I want to know that I can trust this voice inside. And I want repose. From all of this.

I feel drained of all the strength that I had, gathered under my sleeves. I feel devoid of anything remotely hopeful. I cannot indulge in self loathing.  I cannot look forward because the bleak November skies promise me more pain. And I cannot sit here anymore.

I want this voice inside to tell me the truth, and I want to hear it loud. I want to trust it.
I cannot imagine, that I made it this far, though I can't say unscathed. But I made it,  and I cannot imagine that life chooses now to mock me one more time.  But this time she got me.  This time she hit me hard. And this time, the blow is fatal.

So here I am, accepting. Accepting life, that you will always have me bent, and picking up pieces of a broken jar that you made me carve out in the first place. A jar that you promised me would free me from all the other jars that you have broken in my life. I accept life, that I cannot count on you. And now, I cannot count on me. Because as I accept, I also give up and I also give in.

This time, it wasn't just a jar of your making in my hands, this time, you've broken me.

And since I was taught to see the silver lining in everything, here I see the lining too: because this giving in was bound. It was foreseen, forlorn, and destined. Sooner now than later.

So there you are. And here I am, an assortment of my broken jars, give me one last push, and see me crumble all the way.  I will not fight you.  But I dare you. I'm sure that you'll enjoy this.