Revenge and Forgiveness

 Frenziedly gulping down a burning cup of black coffee, frustratedly staring at the google doc opened on my iPad, the date on the left corner mockingly reflecting 22nd July- the day I was supposed to submit this very piece. As I was desperately racking my brain for an epiphany and praying to Oscar Wilde to magically plant a eureka amidst the myriad of dead thoughts, I hoped to find an intellectual take on the theme assigned to me, ‘forgiveness and revenge’. Yet, despite my best efforts and the lethal doses of caffeine I was ritualistically consuming, I found myself to be betrayed by my own self, it seemed as if invisible ropes had strung around my brain, suffocating it and preventing a single cell from functioning.  Bursting with rage, I clamped my fists together, morphing my rosy palms into slabs of icy white. Yet, by some stroke of luck, amidst chaos enveloping me with its embrace, I found myself to be distortedly singing these lyrics;  

“Maybe I shouldn’t try to be perfect, I confess I’m obsessed with the surface.” 

As this song navigated its way into my mind, it amalgamated with my worries and stress, easing the burden. Suddenly, I felt better. I realised that every piece I write doesn’t have to be perfect, poetic and full of extraordinary perspectives; sometimes just pouring my heart and soul out onto paper, bleeding my emotions, is enough. After all, writing in its essence, is a form of expression through words, not a platform which should make us doubt who we are and our calibre. It shouldn’t result in self doubt and loathing, as it is meant for expression, no matter what form or structure the letters are placed in. 

This took me down the road of reflection and ponderment, making me empathise with myself and regret all the times I was excessively harsh on myself. I remembered all the countless times such as that very day, on which I developed animosity with my own self, furious due to not executing sheer perfection. But, it is imperative for us to realise that we are human, and not breaking past all limits every time we do something, is what makes us human. We fall. We fail. But we always get up again, and that is something we should be proud of and applaud ourselves for, because fighting through each and every obstacle that life throws in our way, is no easy feat. 

It will take time for me to fully be at peace with myself, and develop a stronger bond with my soul. But, in the meantime, I am striving to forgive myself. I forgive myself for every time I let myself down, every time I hurt myself and every time I could not be who I wanted to be. I forgive myself for the past, because time moved on, and so shall I. After all, how can I write a piece on revenge and forgiveness if I am still at war internally? 

“It is through art, and through art only, that we can realise our perfection.”

I can think of no better ending to this piece, than the wise words of Oscar Wilde himself, perfectly encapsulating the sentiment with which I rapidly typed these words. To me, these words serve as a reminder that the art we create does not have to be exceptional, it just has to be reflective of who we are, and pieces such as those, the pieces in which we expose our hidden souls, are the pieces which make us realise how extraordinary we truly are, as those words show us sides of ourselves we have not previously witnessed. Art enables us to be ourselves, even in our rawest forms, and this vulnerability is what shows us our beauty, it exposes us to the sides of ourselves which we believe to be obscure thus shield ourselves from. But once all our multilateral facets bleed onto paper, we see how every little detail builds up, intertwining into a marvellous entity, distincting us from the rest of the world and shaping our unique individuality. We are magic, and the artworks we create have sparks of our magic sprinkled into them, mirroring who we are, and making us realise that we are already perfect, despite everything. 

This piece may have been all over the place, dipping into various thoughts, but is that not the point of literature? To be able to explore a plethora of topics and ideologies, not restraining ourselves as we convey all our differing aspects, no matter how chaotic the final outcome may be. After all, amidst chaos, thrives true representation, blurring away the facades of flawlessness. I am a jumble of emotions and feelings, and I am okay with it because it just means that I have the ability to take the world by storm.