December 21, 2005


I was asked to feel guilty about falling in love. Guilt, the forbearer of shame, the angel of the evil in men. Guilt, the destroyer of sanity, of love and of all the emotions that we should have tried to inculcate and to breed amongst us.

I hoped from the depth of my heart that I had misunderstood them. It is always difficult to explain the matters of the heart to the people standing with open minds. But when they try to guide you to unlearn the language of love with the pain of guilt, all that comes out is revulsion, for both, the guide and your love. When I stand amidst that hate, which stemmed from love awhile ago, I am the rebellious child of God, I am the lost crusader, I am the first kamikaze, I am the king, of the broken pieces of my heart.

I rip myself apart, put myself on the cross, intersect and interject every memory, every thought, that I've ever had, to search for the reason for my guilt. I swim in the gutters in my heart, I walk through the fires of my vengeance, I fly through the goodness in me, to find where I had failed my love, where had I fallen so low, to be so ruthlessly mean to my love, to kill it with my own hands, to trample it under the giant feet.

I scuttle and I strive for the answers, and I come up with nothing, not a sin, to scar my love, to dampen its spirit or to destroy its morality, and now after the soul searching, I realize that guilt was the test, to gauge the strength of our bonds, to measure the vastness of our sky, and guilt failed, and love came across just as it had gone inside, untouched, unscratched, undeniable.