“God’s favourite,” she said.

While everything was good, sunshine and rainbows on her doorstep, worshipped him, thanked him, even asked him for more, but always thought of him.

When it got worse, she begged him, prayed to him, cried at his feet to make it all okay, but always thought of him.

Temples, idols, frames—she always looked for his presence in every other sight.

Was she really his favourite, though? Or so she thought.

Luck was one thing, blessings were another; neither went hand in hand when the world was collapsing right in front of her.

At a point, nothing seemed to change, nor did her prayers work; was she really God-graced?

Got angry at him, yelled "What did I do to deserve it?” with a silent voice pleading, “Please God, get me out of this.”

Still, it didn’t stop, echoed further; the louder it got, the more she shouted until finally the pin dropped.

The chaos stopped, she got back up, wiped her tears, fixed the wounds in her heart and the mess in her head,

Stepped out of the house with her thoughts on hold, her hair well done, though her eyes were drained; looked up to the sky; and

“God’s favourite," she said.

I love unmade beds. I read this in a passage today, and it encapsulated every single thing that gives life to humans. It was beautiful, and everything written came from the writer’s heart, capturing what numerous others felt too. And a part of me thought I related to that the moment I read it, how humans find beauty in each other’s truest forms when they’re vulnerable, drunk, desiring something from their core, daydreaming, crying, in love, feeling every powerful emotion a human could feel. I was amazed by how perfectly it was written, even if it was written about all the moments farthest from perfect.

But another, rather masked part of me hated that I felt otherwise. How could someone ever love the part of me I have hated since I was aware of it? How could someone ever love smeared makeup, fragile hearts and incomplete dreams as they’re nothing but a projection of what could’ve been? Seems rather unrealistic, being awestruck by something so fucked. There is an invisible line one needs to cross, a line between finding in others vulnerabilities amusing and caring about their insecurities like our own. Isn’t being vulnerable also a con of being too genuine?

But maybe I did not understand the passage at all. Maybe my mind wasn’t able to comprehend the depth of those words, and my heart was not ready to accept it, as I always thought smeared makeup meant you look ugly, fragile hearts portrayed a sign of weakness, and broken dreams belonged in trash. Or maybe I just prefer my bed made.