Consequence of severe affection.

This is me walking away. And I choose now to do this, because precisely now, I love you the most. Beyond this, it can only go downhill. Because we are flawed and human. Love, often when left alone for sometime, self-destructs. And I can't see that. I can not see that. I cannot see this love degenerate. And make nothing of itself. So I am walking away now, when everything is just so perfect. When I am assured that I love thee. And I will never find this love again, with anyone else, I forfeit, abandon. Give up. 

No, I am not exhausted. Just a little numbed I believe, I am unable to feel a thing. Neither affection, nor repulsion, not even the sorrow of going away from you, not the pangs of heartbreak. I feel nothing. And I am taking this very very conscious decision of just being by myself. Sometime back, I found it hard to imagine a separation. And now I am just inert to all tiny insecurities. It must be some life-saving involuntary bodily mechanism of self defense. Because deep down, I know a lot of things I pretend not to know on the surface. Because deep down, I know I wouldn't survive the impending umpteenth heartbreak, that you're gonna so cause me. Baby. I wouldn't. So, I am drugging myself to leave.  

And sometimes, walking away is the more feasible option. Than staying back and fighting for you. Putting a lot at stake, and hoping for nothing. It's hard, I swear. So this is me walking away. 

No one's coming.

It’s such a relief sometimes to know that no one’s coming; No one’s coming to get you. This night is endless. The door is bolted. Home alone. It’s such a remedy to be alone. All your life you have waited for someone to come and get you. But not tonight. You have got no place to go to. No answers to answer. No second voices. Just the vice of sinking into an abyss. This abyss beautiful, soothing as hell. Hardly any pretension. Company is overrated, may be even love is. Love too is overrated. Heart is one complete thing. It needn't await fucking completion, not a piece in a jigsaw that needs fitting in. Home alone, this is nearly perfect. Nearly. Misery has taken a backseat. It’s soon vanishing into the horizon I am leaving behind. No one’s coming to get me. 

The Proposal

That day when you bought me purple shorts with yellow stars in the blistering afternoon wind by the sea because I couldn't stand the summer. From that day when I couldn't stand an inche's distance between you and I, till today. When I sit in coffee shops alone, merely thinking about you, having developed a silly audacity to get away from you with elan because I could never tell you that I love you. What has changed. Throughout there is the overlapping all encapsulating general disappointment with life. The repetitious loops my mind gets into, swinging between artificial happiness and perennial sorrow. A slow volcano erupts inside me, not knowing why. Mostly watching both you and me decaying in cowardice as against love. And disappearing. Into molecules and atoms. And protons and electrons. And the gigantic spaces between them. What have we got. What have we done. Except for ignoring, denying the presence of, an impending empty future. And just underneath our skin, sulking in that fear that we are being returned empty-handed. Naked and unloved. But where will the love come where there is no courage. Where the heart and mind do not collide and confess and make it known. Quiet love is only as good as no love. Only as bad as it. So say. Proclaim. Make known. Carve out the love you feel you desrve.

On second thoughts, don't. Because where does arise the need to say. Show me. Isn't everyone literate enough to just know. Feel understand. Through the gift of his five senses. And the mind. That he's being loved. So desperately. And with such impunity. If he doesn't understand it by himself, he's just living in denial. Or acting funny foolish. So don't just say. Not yet.

Living in your shadow

I am not a giver by default. But the skewed equation of love has made me into one. Power games fuck with the mind bad. And now I am what I am not. I had an identity, with very distinctly carved outlines that didn't haze out. Now I merge in and out of your preferences, you prefer it or not. And I choose this, would have it no other way. I like living in your shadow.

Where your dreams come first, your wants are superior than mine. Where you have the louder say. I merely cherish the shade in your shadow. This love is like an escape for me. For as long as you would let me be, I would be. Here, not asking too many questions, or demanding too much time. Or too much of your attention. Mumbling my inadequacies to you when you're asleep, finding solace in that.

I believe this post sounds overtly dramatic and something very unlike what I would do. But trust me. This is how it feels. Today I saw a movie & I quote:

Q: Why do I and everyone I love pick people who treat us like we're nothing?

A: We accept the love we think we deserve.

And how true is that. I think I deserve you assuming that you'll realize what I am worth someday, yet not wanting that realization to come right away. My patience is sweet and I want to take you on a journey of realizing who I am, who we can be. Both of us, how magic awaits to happen to us.

But you won't budge. From where you are.

Sometimes, I doubt if it's an equation of love at all, I can't see the = anywhere. There isn't even a ~ honey, hinting approximate equality. There must be a massive <<< sign somewhere here. And I can't see it yet because the darkness of your shadow has eaten up my mind.

Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon

We don't do reviews. Because we firmly believe we can never judge another man's work of art. We could never be equipped well enough for that. Things are subjective, we know. One cannot generate a score and draw that dirty line between good and bad. And say. This is that and that ain't this. 

I may be cheap to impress, more often than not, I love what I see than not-love. Though I might pretend the strength of sarcasm because love makes my knees weak, but I keep the margins wide, to err is beautiful. I am forgetting the point I was trying to make. 

Works of art change the way I see. Breathe in and out. And if you know me, you should know that I talk like a maniac for a book that I have adored, more than adored, a movie that don't let me sleep. And this is an understatement. The effect is sometimes toxic, repeatedly addictive, I can't unhook me from what I love, from who I love. The latter is, another story. Anyway

I am in awe of mad geniuses. They rock my world, more, much more than perfectionists. 

Getting back to the point, hold on. I found a movie, another movie, that I am gonna keep coming back to for a long time. It's nothing short of a treasure. Pulp fiction. Every time I watch it, I want to smooch John Travolta right out of the screen. 

Work of art, joy forever. 

PS: Not to be understood otherwise, title is a song from the movie. Google, at your own risk. Disclaimer. yeah, life's full of them. 

Simile

My love of you
Is the amount of love
Bound in the birthday poem
I wrote for my mother
When I was eight

My love of you
Is more than the sarcasm
Contained in the worst misanthropic shit
I could ever think of

Though, is slightly less
Than the number of stars
In the night sky.

My love of you
Tastes like a neat curse
On someone's angry black tongue
That apt, adequate

I love you like time loves time.
Zones apart, on different faces of the planet
Yet that rythme, of moving together

I love you in a way, similes fall short.

Even words fail

So no matter how ridiculous it sounds, I earnestly believe that I deserve the right to love you. In my own ridiculous way. I cherish this right too much, it's almost sacred. I choose to love you, because I know no other prejudice.

Though all love fades, and no man can ever be able enough to deserve a woman completely in forever time, I  love you now. In a way, I desperately need you to appreciate that in as long the now lasts. 

Forsaken.

In TV serials, there are these shrewd conspiring aunties. Where are they in our lives? Our life. Plural no more. Singular, held together by the glue of love. Our life. Not lives. Marked correction. Where are these shrewd conspiring TV serial aunties? So is missing the rain, romance, honeymooned beaches. Skimpy clothes bought and hidden for far off holidays. Gifts and special days. Staring at the moon and talking. When will I be reading out all these poems I wrote for you, all these years. When will you pause from the race you are running and say, you love me too. When are we gonna rest, baby. I am tired, working days, thinking work at nights, working my ass off for the money that is never spent to purchase lasting joy. I am exhausted, being stuck so much away from you, that if I scream, you would never ever get me. Where is the life I wanted so much. The satin bed sheet, on which I would count creases in the morning. Where is the half burnt dinner I would manage, to be nibbled with rapt attention, in front of the TV, watching serials, and wondering why is whatever missing, missing indeed. Our life, is exhausting itself so fast, in the hands of time and fate, I couldn't feel more crippled sometimes. Of missing out on so much. Of missing out on so much, that it is as if, everything is being missed out, forsaken. And what for? Why? I know there always is somebody who is more underprivileged than us, but why do the good things seem to happen to someone outside of the aforesaid underprivileged and us. Just why. 

Acquaintance.

You are like your own reflection in water. Disappearing into waves every second. Unsteadily swaying in and out of my shattered heart. You. Are just like your reflection in water. Now you're here by me, the moment next, you aren't. I can't say. You won't say. A word about what would happen hereafter. We won't take that chance. Too much is at stake. When you are here, though you are vivid, assertive of your presence. Loud and clear. When you aren't, you are only an imagination in my mind.

And I am a woman of minimal means. I am never beautiful enough. Only men who have spend sufficiently long enough time with me, alone, fall for my internal complications and hidden falacies. It's almost obvious that I am not obviously beautiful. And I believe you know this for a fact. Yet you hang around. And then run away. As you fancy. I do not understand.

This Time*

We say, there is a next time. Serial procrastinators. Killers of today.

But you know. Now I feel, that there is no tomorrow. No next time. Only a frail and hardly breathing this time. So pale and sick and fading out, that it makes me shiver to feel its pulse, on my fingertip.

We keep tossing love. Kicking it out from between us now. Assuming that, we will meet again. Through miracles and coincidences. But the ruggedness of our fates, tells us that, our miracles happen as often as never.

The odds are very slim, that we meet again, after a couple years. And regain the spark that used to be. Forget our intermediate loves, and fall for each other again.

Because, next time, it would be too late. Too late. I should feel hopeless. I know you are the one. But.

It's not meant to be I guess. What can you do. What can I do.

* the title is inspired from the title of Jesse Wallace's book from Before Sunset. Call me crazy, if you will. Please. Call me that.