That Choking Feeling

There is no huger gas bag full of unmistakable crap than true love. There is hardly anything called that, except that some magical happyness that seems to ever-last, until it doesn't. It doesn't. Nothing lasts. We stick to that hope and bookmark that page in our lives, assuming that, that was our one chance. Our closest brush with heaven.

Later, when with another soul-mate we trade intimate secrets, under covers, when every damn thing is shared, out in the open, naked, un-judged, we open up like we were dormant volcanoes for years. We say every damn thing. To the minutest detail, the names, the incidents, the locations, the timings. Our innermost sacred feelings are spilled shamelessly without a care, with that soul-mate.

And just when we fall on our backs, looking up at the roof, feeling light like an open book, we choke. We realize that there is he, we cannot still talk about. We couldn't. There is so much raw pain, in pronouncing the name itself, there is so much disappointment in his failed promises, that we couldn't dare to uproot him from the holiest of holies in our heart and throw him out homeless. Like an urchin. He wouldn't survive the rain and heat.

What if he perishes. What would we have after that? Nothing is as completely yours as is your sorrow. Dispossessed by everyone else, you tend to look at the man with the same degree of insane passion, as you tend to look at the void created by his absence. And the bag full of unmistakable crap stays rather wrapped, forever.

What you had assumed would bring you a lifelong happyness, continues as a mere choking feeling in your throat. Life! 

3 comments:

Krish said...

What you had assumed would bring you a lifelong happyness, continues as a mere choking feeling in your throat. Life! :)

wildflower said...

All you did is add the smiley. Huh. Krish!

Krish said...

That is all I wanted to do after reading that line. :P