Shakespeare said mercy blesses twice. Once, the one who gives it, and once the one who receives it.
Forgiveness is the other way around. Twice cursed.
Once by those you forgive, those who don't deserve it, those who hate you for being better than them. Those who you've cast out from your heart, but not from your mind. Those whom you've sworn off, and sworn not to think of. Those who occupy negative space, in the same way that a lint trap in a washing machine exaggerates its own importance in a spin cycle.
Then it comes to you. That bastard child of many fruitless conversations with best friends. Some of those best friends are yours, even. This child, this emotion, born of discussion, and of desperation to settle a mind.
And you curse it.
Because (and I know I'm not supposed to start a sentence with because) you don't get it. You don't get what you've done to deserve it. Your scale of grey is duochromatic - black and white, with nothing in between.
So you sit up. Chemicals and manias course through you. You're in a strange land, drawing parallels to Latin.
"Tu hi hai pyar, mahiya..."
Is it supposed to be this difficult?
But of course, you don't know. and you're supposed to not know, or care.
Because you're trying to forgive.
