Why I Love Her

Juicy Peppah

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AMONG all the pointy rocks I have ever seen, only she possessed a beauty that will remain for eternity. She may not be as tall as the Everest’s peak, or high-minded as the line of philosophers polished by the passing of time, but her heart was made of pure, clear crystal—tightly wrapped inside a bed of gritty spikes—waiting to be refined by a huge storm of fire—experience.

But mindless as the blind woman that I was, I failed to see that beauty in her, only because the sight of her face was gate of hell to me, and the sound of her words were daggers from its fetid mouth. For three years I was one of the weightless grains of sand, washed away even by a small wave of deep, glacial, deceitful waters without a sweat. For fear of being detested, I was forced to exercise their ways of thinking, thus, causing too much pain on that pointy rock.

Had I held on to her stinging surface, I would have smiled at the truest approval she has given me, rejoiced at the littlest help she could offer, and cried joyfully only for having her around at my toughest times. Had I covered the caverns of my ears, I would have heard clearly the rhythmic beat of her genuine heart. Had I turned my back on the other grains of sand, I would have kept her as the most precious gem I could ever have and never let go.

I cannot blame her for blatantly not considering me someone worthy of her trust because I never was. The fact that for many times, I have hurt her deliberately would suffice her decision. The words that explained her feelings before could have pierced my heart to death, rendering me undeserving of any long-time friends. But looking back, I think that would only serve me right. I see myself as nothing but a shrimp locked inside a tiny box, deprived of the right to think, feel, and understand.

Given about six empty months to look back, I have realized that she was the one who called me ‘friend’ when I heard nothing, who opened her arms to welcome me even when she knew that I would betray her in the end, who would remain standing beside me even when I try to push her away, and who would sing music to my ears even when I scorn the sound of her voice at her back.

How stupid of me to realize her worth when she won’t be around anymore. How wasteful could I ever be, deciding to keep up with the sea of shallow monsters than to rest my head on that rock, however painful? How could I ever repay the kindness that her harsh, gentle words have provided?

Not even a simple sound of gratitude would suffice the mound of love she had given wholeheartedly. But though I only have little time—or maybe no more—to say such things, I will always remember that once in my life, someone as beautiful, genuine, and durable as she stepped boldly into the darkness of my life to offer light… that someone that dadayanic deserves eternal love more than I do.