There is this room, where souls bond. Floors of mosaic, tip toed upon, lazy feet pushed, fingers slid between fingers and seduced. There is this room, with no windows. No skylights. Just four walls. Four walls that cage as much as they free. That let ignominy swallow you as much as they enlighten. This is where contradictions coexist.

From the outside, it is hard even merely to imagine that such a place could come to be.

It's like some encapsulated reality, in a capsule, which exists from the inside and other crazy things like that. Threads of connections between beings, are formed, nurtured, and shattered. Irrational, unexplainable bonds rooted in raw needs. The honesty in those bonds is almost sacred. There is no pretension in those chords that tie. And untie. Almost as immediately as that thirst is quenched, the knots are opened up. Disentangled. Free to go.

But for as long as there is that inseparability, there is no questions asked. No answers sought.

Again, did somebody ever say, there was more honesty in lust than in love itself. Or did I just imagine. Being told so.

Men in my life-X!

It took me longer than usual to understand his curious glances. That would sometime stretch into stares. Until I happened to look back at him and disturb his concentration. Then obviously I would notice a subtle expression on his face that you can suppose to be a smile. Or the making known of a mild amount of interest. An inclination to understand about what kept me so so perturbed that I was going nuts every alternate moment of the day. Gasping for breath. And not even having the common courtesy to spare a moment to acknowledge and appreciate his stare.
And when I had that one moment to spare, he must have been a flight to what could be a zillion miles away.
With age, love gets deeper. I mean, but of course. Whatother way could it be. I may be talking about the sentiment towards one man in particular. Or towards many, in a destined chronological order. One man after another. But the love gets deeper. I suppose.
I hope I am making myself clear. Or, let me come again. You love the man you loved at twenty-six more over the man you desired at twenty-two. Is this true? Does love have something to do with age? Or is it just my self pity and consistent estrangement making it appear so. I could harbor a self- bias, but still I think. I believe, it gets harder to deal with heart-break with age. What's appaling is that, the contrary seems to be true.
Because you are expected to become more mature, thick-skinned, self-obsessed, pragmatic, faithless and blah with age. It's only natural. And hence, the loss of love, isn't techincally expected to affect you as much as it did when you were young. But no..
Somewhere inside, the hurt is getting deeper. The cut is reaching for your insides, as you speak. The ghosts of those x-s and y-s and z-s live inside your head now. Because, probably because, he was the one, who you had caught up with so late in life, who you were desperately clinging to for your happyness, and then shockingly it all broke down. Suddenly, there seem to be less fish in the sea. And desperate clinging feels criminal.
Also sometimes, you feel the man you are going love when you get twenty-six is the same as the man you were crazy about at twenty-two. This is exactly when you realise that that SOB has made a home inside of your skull. And that you're doomed. Amen!

How slim are the odds?

The odds are very slim. The odds of something that you want to happen, for it to actually happen, in flesh and blood, the odds are very very slim. Almost non existent. Almost ridiculous. Believing in those odds, makes me feel like some practical joke inside of a pessimist's mind. And I realize this, time and again, whenever I close my eyes and make a wish. Because, everywhere deep down I know. I know, my guts know, that it's not going to happen. The thin threads of my prayer, are entangled, amidst the concocted realities of life. So the wish is killed.

But there is another way. It's an escapists', pardon me. But nevertheless. When you wish for something, anything, close your eyes, such that, no light of truth dares to enter inside. And imagine. Imagine like you're living it. Live it, like you are not imagining it anymore. Like one life inside another, contradictory though, but fantastically co-existent. Whatever it is that you wanted to happen. Give in to it. Believe what you see is real, for whatever minutes you're cut off. Don't let guilt or cowardice scare you away.

I did. And then I saw him everywhere. At bus stops. In airports. In shopping malls. Book stores. Yeah, most particularly book stores. In the rain, sun, biting cold, whatever. Whereever. I saw him, with shut eyes. Heard him when he was nowhere around. He wasn't. He couldn't be. But I did.

..And suddenly, the odds weren't slim anymore.