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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.