My Half-Filled Cup

There are nights like these when I would question my love, efforts, and actions I have been pouring into my favourite cups. Am I doing enough? Shall I have poured more? Why do I feel aloof? Why don’t I receive the same?

Oh yeah, the real question. Why do I not receive the same?

Am I doing it because I want to receive it back or because I really love them?

I know the answer, and yet the first doubt crawls back to me.

I do it completely out of love and care, but when I see them pouring more into another cup, I question my actions. Why am I not the one? Where did I lack? But I am not allowed to question it, I feel.

I understand.

They do not owe me. If they wish to love someone else more dearly, they can. I did it out of love, not on the condition of receiving its payment.

I understand, and I understand me too; but why do I envy it?

But I shouldn’t be this much understanding. It’s a trap, a trap where the thorns of roses have entangled me. And I can’t help but be blinded by the beauty of roses and their fragrance.

I have always made sure everyone in my family could hear my loud love through my actions. There are times when I wouldn’t be expressing myself through my words but through my love language. And yet and yet and yet, they chose to care for someone else dearly.

Again, they do not owe me. I owe myself, and it’s me who didn’t fill my own cup.

Whenever I look at my elders, I wonder what kind of shallow heart I possess to not be loved by them enough? They tell me they are very supportive and they have tried their best to fill my cup.

But why does that cup always seem half empty to me?

Or maybe they have been pouring so much that I am myself spilling it everywhere?

Or maybe in their mind they are having the same thoughts as I do?

Or am I being too understanding?

I don’t know. And it’s hard to reach an answer that doesn’t exist.

Every time I look at them, I know. I don’t wish to become the same elder.

I don’t want my younger ones to feel the same as what my younger version felt.

And hence I try, I try, I try and try.

I am doing this out of love again.

But I still can’t help but taste the same love which I have been pouring.

And it doesn’t taste the same.

I hope one day someone will pour into my cup and I will get a taste of it.

But till then, I would be making my own coffee and sipping it as the happiness crawls back to me.