On Love

It’s three in the night; the cold is starting to get into my bones and  I’m for a change sober ( considering its just been little more than a week since I got over with my exams)- Khushwant Singh’s seminal injected prose is starting to bore me a wee bit too.  I plug on my roommate’s obscenely expensive earphones and listen to the most mushy song on my playlist. And I realize the incisor is all evil again.

I’ve , by my own admission, changed quite drastically over the last few months. I’m well on the way of becoming an agnostic (something that I know will hurt my mother deeply) and a firm believer of Love (of romantic nature) as a bond way behind bases as I had perceived it for so long. I know I’ve slipped in the previous line in a way more casual than Virender Sehwag would treat my leg breaks but the repercussions on my life have been worse than what the Indian middle order feels when Tendulkar gets out in the first over in a 300 runs plus run chase.  The blog’s been not doing well as expected and though I know personal accounts hurt blogs worse than weed after alcohol, I’ll take a chance for once I think it’s worth it ,and as Rumi had said-Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.

I do not, honestly, know if I’ve ever felt love but I’d like to believe I have- in the pensive brown eyes of the girl I’ve looked into hardly over a second, in the long Garnier conditioned tresses of the girl I’ve played for hours on end, in the ever warm arms of the girl I’ve spent the most unsure moments of life, in the cherry lipstick of the woman I made love to on a sweaty May afternoon. The fulfillment, I must admit, that I experience as I know no force in nature can take these moments away, is subtly overwhelming.  As I read my ramblings over the last half an hour I realise there are high chances I’ll disown this piece at some point in the future but till then as Morrison had written-Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free.

I’m at a junction in life where I have to take a decision and take it fast. The big beautiful bubble of love that borders on utopia (okay, rather crosses it!), I know, may burst any moment but the whole experience of staying perpetually high on a beautifully destructive dose of winged love and Morrison’s and Rumi’s poetry is more than just tempting. December, in spite of its cold stony nights is cozily comfortable with strong coffee and cigarettes, much like Love’s reassuring touches amidst its tragic turbulence and the both of them together with copious amounts of  black Rum, when given a chance , can make you feel warmer and gladder than the most potent antidepressants . I’m not strong enough yet to let Love weave it warm magic on a cold December night for I still care and worry about trivialities like practicality and logistics even as I know people so close to me are letting it happen to them and are happily basking in the sweetness of nothing yet everything.

I know very well no amount of Rumi and Morrison will help me come to a decision but then I at least believe that Love as embodied in the poetry of Rumi and music of Mr. Mojo Risin’ does exist and I, till the bubble bursts and fall flat on my face, intend to keep Love that way- surreal and beyond taciturn logic.

The night is long and the dream is beautiful

 But to fly higher, there is but only one rule

 You have to break and you will touch the sky

That to your heart, never shall you lie.