I am catastrophically sorry for not posting earlier, if anybody still anticipates a post. This one’s for a creepy girl I know and love. Thanks for kicking me off the bed and letting me mope and write on the floor. I’ll make no promises but I can assure you that I am trying hard to be more productive lately, with new year just lurking in the backyard.

This is for all the people falling in love right now,

“How odd is it to be loved at all”  is a digression from the original thought, “How strange it is to be anything at all”  reminds me of the pestilence that has gnawed many a hearts whole and made world’s whole for some. Yes, dear reader, I am writing about the sweetly cloying magnanimity that many philosophers argue, surrounds humans even when the lights are out. Love. It will pour down into a cliché if I make up pretentiously ornate word bouquets about the sickly emotion that always gets too much credit for making everything worth fighting for, which I personally believed as a big farce sold to Pre-pubescent teens, shamelessly snatching away their right to find for themselves the reality of the oddly familiar sensation. We’ve read about Heroes and heroines and their epic love sagas since the middle grade, hell they’ve been a part of our curriculum, overtly glorified in the form of a Utopia intentionally handed down from hopeful dreamers to be alive for a little longer or maybe to validate their faith in something that never came true in their own lifetimes. Love is a tragic comedy some might argue and for some, it is the final salvation. We are creatures of circumstance, reader.

Whatever love is, it definitely gets bills paid for lovelorn writers. This sudden amorous atmosphere or the lack of it is a simple product of a romantic- film- itch that has needed my attention for a while, well I scratched it yesterday. The post and title have been inspired by a film of the same title. The film was a mediocre attempt at portraying different scenarios that play out during the plague of love. (I just found that I had a song buried in the crypts of my endless music files, I’d been looking for it everywhere but here) Strangely the content in the brackets illustrate a generalised concept of love which I begrudgingly accept. There is a thin line between holding on and letting go. How long is long enough? What if hope trumps surrender? This may be a fictionalised world I am building hereon but it is inspired by very real events. Are we running from one to another in search of a substitute for our disgusting illusion of a person who emulates everything we don’t stand for? Or are we just inherently restless? These are a few things that keep me up all night. And the thing that stings the most is that we know that we know and yet it will still play out the same way it was supposed to in the first place without the materialisation of the divine intervention we have been hoping for all along.

The concept of moving on from a memory and moving on from a person is relative. I am going to paraphrase Dostoevsky (because I am currently reading his work),”At any rate man has always somehow feared that two and two makes four. And I still fear it. Granted that man does nothing but search out those two time two is four; he sails across oceans, he sacrifices his life in this quest, but, I would swear, he’s somehow afraid of really finding, discovering it. For he feels that, as soon as he finds it, there will be nothing to search for.”I have always wondered what scares us so irreparably that we wait in the shadows especially when all we want is the Sun? I am raising more questions than answering them. I am hoping that we are not afraid of bearing out the ugliness we have shrouded ourselves behind, a carefully orchestrated soap opera behind the face; the flaws, the shame, the taut opinions, the tired soul and the inability to accept ourselves as vessels of filth and wonder. Maybe we should know our heart before we seek to find another. Because I know reality is better than dreams when one knows the anatomy of the heart. We draw conclusions before we solve the equation. We anticipate an ending before we read the prologue. Our disbelief of anything pleasant ever happening to us overpowers the mousy hope to survive the storm, maybe under an umbrella with someone.

Waiting for the right moment should be a formidable sin punishable by law of the land. It’s not waiting, it’s an excuse to prolong the cowardice, the laughable attempt to escape from truly feeling contented with a feeling. Maybe we’ve been drilled superstitiously to fear happiness because it’s known to be followed by bleakness. The film teaches us to hoping for more than we think we deserve. And if you're just scared to get your heart smashed into smithereens I'll tell you a secret, smithereens have an occult shapelessness to them, a lack of definiteness and if that is not beautiful I don't know what is. It's okay to love things we do not completely understand and I think heartbreak is a purposive honor screaming " you know how storms work, weatherman."

People like me often sigh with relief because we’re unbound by another human tie but, it is us nonetheless who sigh at the small miracles of love too. I am a coward, reader. An A-listed coward to feel anything potentially romantic or as I call it, disastrous towards another human being. Running in circles makes your head spin, it’s better to play hide and seek.

I distinctly remember from Before sunset “Isn’t everything we do in this life is to be loved more?” The real problem arises when we do not receive it from a particular person. As the man in cornerstone stumbles from bar to bar looking for a figment of his imagination and asking strangers who remind him of her if he could call them by her name, he cries “tell me where’s your hiding place, I am scared that I’ll forget your face” I guess sometimes that’s what we are chasing too; an abstract idea of what we want love to be and then submerge ourselves in morbid misery when we run out of places and chances to find it. I could tell you my opinion on how to not retrograde the progress or I could choose to lay down the bare truth and let you make a judgement for yourselves, I am offering you the choice the former Pre-pubescent- you was deprived of. Make that choice. Love is not a laser quest as song writers will have you believe. It is mesmeric and it’s suffocating, it’s a whole new dimension. There are things in a man’s life that he doesn’t reveal except maybe to his friends, then there are things he doesn’t reveal to them too and ultimately there are things he refrains from revealing to himself. If that is what you’re afraid of, the possibility of a forlorn limbo of paralysis   i.e; finding something warped and twisted or worse, finding nothing at all, you are wasting time.

 I’ve always wished for love to be simple but then even clouds cry to satiate the parched earth, why should humans get it any easier?

P.S. I hope the right people receive the right message at the right time, I hate being late.