Today I choose to write LOVE.

I was once in love. I think I 'loved' 2 people romantically my whole life. 

One certainly did not deserve it and I seriously do doubt I loved him because I simply cannot believe I was there at one point in life. There. Loving him. It seems like a ridiculous place to be in. 

And the other. The other will always be special, no matter how many times I push, pull and play around with the thought that he never was. He was probably the first guy who talked to me about my personality, wrote letters and placed it outside below my hostel room door. The first one I played Guitar hero with, the first one who bought me flowers more than 3 times (in fact, 6 times), the one who bought me my first book on lions (my favorite animal) and the first one I knew who would eventually marry his cousin. 

And he is the first guy who actually tells me he prays for me. When he went for umrah, that was all he could talk about when he sent me daily messages. 

Does it hurt I cannot be with him? I do not know. 

You see everything sounds so lovely in retrospect, on paper, in sugar coated words. But was it? To some degree yes. In other aspects, no. 

I choose to think I'm like a dandelion, floating to my next destination. Lame comparison I know, but we had a tonne of them in Russia often crippling people with allergic rhinitis (yours truly included) so I have experience in judging the nature of their existence.

 You see, a dandelion can be ugly and pretty simultaneously. It's just a weed.  No love is lost if it is crushed, no love is given if it is plucked and admired for its fragility, it's like snow in summer. Soft and weightless. It would also, quite often, be put to the test of being blown to a hundred directions by an irresponsible adult. 

So let me be one. 
I'd have many 'spores' or fluffy pollen I can afford to just shed. Once part of me is blown out, I grow again somewhere far and await the same circle of fate. 

But I know I can be alone. Like a solitary spore. I love being alone. I am accustomed to it. Because nobody has ever made me feel like I belong. That I can be a part of them. 

That is why a dandelion is a perfect comparison. It is never a part of even itself. There's nothing so special about it. True. And there's nothing special about myself if you were to compare me to girls with the fairest of skin, nicest of booty, straightest of hair and friendliest of nature. 

But, I know my worth. I exist in that quiet sense of being, of comfort. I love my own skin. I'm happy. But quietly happy. Like a floating dandelion. It knows despite the harshest of winters it suprises everyone the next time the sun is up in summer.  

So, back to love. 

Love will never be something I chase or pursue anymore. If it happens, I'd let it happen quietly so it can quietly leave when it ends. But silence, that is love. 

When it resounds in that state. And you have absolutely no doubts. 

Where all you see are actions that prove it and never words that betray it.  

And it is in that same silence a dandelion grows, journeys and dies.