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Thoughts: Love Means Always Having To Say You Are Sorry

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Thoughts Love Means Always Having To Say You Are Sorry

“What can you say about a twenty-five year-old girl who died?

That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.”

I don’t have the slightest idea as to why I am writing on this topic, given that I have as many as ten incomplete blog posts on far more interesting topics, waiting to be completed and posted. Also what shocks me is the fact that I am not even a big fan of Love Story by Erich Segal (from where the above lines have been taken) or love stories in general. Still, these lines seem to have a great deal of effect on me. They are simplistic; yet so non-naive.  It’s hard to decide whether I like these lines more or do not like the whole book more. But I think I shall settle with the former. I am totally in awe with the lines. I felt that it was the perfect opening lines for the (not-so-perfect) book.

A short take on the book (read: on love stories) – The book’s short note on the back cover reads, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry…” Ah, the usual idealistic stuff. One of my friends (Rudrath Kaul 🙂 ) retorted with “Love means always having to say you’re sorry…” I must say, he is quite practical. I guess, true love is the perfect oxymoron. No, am not prejudiced, and neither do I have some bitter experience in love that makes me think so. It’s just that the over-hype that usually follows love everywhere, in every corner of the world, makes me hysterical. Frenzied, to put in colloquial terms. And love stories have only added to the over-the-top expectations from relationships. Why can’t something so pure and pristine (I like it to associate love with the Divine) be just left to be felt and experienced by themselves by the individuals. Why is there any need to read love stories and just further complicate the already obscure and incomprehensible relations?

Only God knows. Or the readers. Or the writers perhaps. Atleast I hope they do. I wouldn’t deny the fact that I was one of those who were caught in the false shine that this genre of books carries with themselves. Having already hated (or disliked; hate is too strong a word to use) the Twilight movies, I still bought the so-called classic love story. Alas, having had my share of reading it, in a way I know better now; to stay away from these kind of novels-just unrealistic, superficial and impractical in their approach. The real world where we live is a mean place to eat, pray and live love. Atleast that is what I think or rather, feel. Maybe I am being raw. I do not know. I do not speak or think ill of love. Just the extraneous importance that it carries, making people neglect their work is what I disapprove of. Love should let it follow its own course; take its own time; shape in its own way. As the saying goes, while we are here, we can love along the way. Not the other way round.

Melancholy and Crying: Why do women cry and worry so much?

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Melancholy and Crying: Why do women cry and worry so much

Why is it that it needs to be the beauty in pain to show it at least when tears are epitome of the sorrow one bores inside. Has anyone ever focused in the line of thought to why does eyes have to bear the innocence of every melancholy. Melancholy one`s heart can sometimes never expatiate the intensity of fabrication with life and people we love or may be we don`t. Cording to me,Eyes are chosen for such an expression just because they are best expression revealing bounty of god.

REASONS- We are not talking of the happiness tears.For a baby.who has no sense to what`s happening to it,crying exhibits that it needs something,may be food,milk,fresh air,hot environment ,a diaper change or just mere attention. We grow to be Lil kids,we still cry,with great glaring eyes full of different colours of life and then we still have tears for may be momma wasn`t fair or the kid fought with some other Lil kid and then came crying with seeking attention. Such a small self expression of tears.We walk to maturity stairs and we cry,`cause we failed somewhere. We failed in love, career or some idea. We failed to trust,failed to built that trust,failed in proving our self,failed in the thought to prove. We become matures,as we say,don`t wanna seek attention any more,may be sometimes,but we prefer being a loner,crying with every bit of us disparaged by self.Sands of time making our grief intense,since we have learned to pile up.As we were children, we used to forget. The cerebellum for a grown up seems to be a foe connecting to past,definitions of our failures and fear of repeating them. Definition of LACHRIMATION changes with age.It becomes proportional to age,not intensity of tears but the intensity of grief and pain we bore. Since childhood is not a time we repent on our decisions or cry for failed results but adulthood is.

As i infer,crying is a great phenomenon to drain out through lachrymal,the intense agony of heart ,not always really accepted truth we bore, some mistakes we make,some which others do,some repentance, some remembrance,some happiness,some affection,some hope,some love, some vengeance,some hatred,some shame,some loneliness but as all it`s important to be touched by your soul, this makes you actually know yourself better.About your yearns,your desires,the things you hate,the people who can hurt you, the people you can never let you hurt you,the people who are meant to be with you,people who support you,people who care as a whole the mandate which governs your life and the things that really can shake up there presence with you.

THIS IS HOW LIFE HAS TO GO.IT MAKES YOU FEEL LIKE AN ASSET,UNDERSTAND YOU,LOVE YOU AND BE MORE OF YOU!!!!

Cobbled Stones And Streets: Emotions And Thoughts Of A Woman

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Cobbled Stones And Streets Emotions And Thoughts Of A Woman

Cobbled streets ignite extreme interest in my head. Interest that is a direct reflection of how they are. Cobbled. It’s funny, how disparate sections of usually igneous material are laid down in a jagged manner to arrive at something that is smooth. Smooth for us to walk on. Very similar to our personalities; as jagged as they might be, someone still walks all over it. And then comes the cold. The chill that runs down your spine when you step on these stones barefooted. It’s like it torments you. Laughs at you. And all you can do is tip toe. Try to avoid touching your entire sole on it. The same stones. The ones that you “walk on” – now numb you. But you still walk on it, don’t you? Donning your soft and padded shoes, you set out. The stones are now quiet. It’s in your hands. The game. Or so you think.

You use objects to keep the cold stone from touching your feet. Objects that represent pretention. Faux. Phony. Inorganic. Much like our emotions. In times of testing. How we pretend to smile. Pretend to not care. Pretend that everything is going to be all right. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. But will it really?

Cobbled stones. They bear so much. Yet with each bearing they strain unto themselves, they only become smoother. Less jagged. More rounded. But ladies and gentlemen. We think we’ve cornered them. Won our battles. Alas, we forget what they now become. They fight their battles with wit. With a naive sophistication. A frowning smile. Next time we step on them. No, they’re not jagged. We, have made them smooth. Alas! Too smooth for our liking. We slip. We fall to the ground. This time the cold hits, not only our bare soles but also our hands, our body, our face. They laugh again. Immortal they might be. They are much more potent. Stationary – yet brimming with such mobility. And we question our own potential. Or blame the faux shoes. For the manufacturer of their sole needs to relook his materials. And we continue to walk our way. On the cold cobbled street. Till we arrive at the lamppost. That gleams yellow in our eyes but fails to intensify the dark cobbled stones. The sharp light that blinds us; shatters and dissolves when it hits the ground. That’s how potent cobbled stones are. They suck even the light. So we breathe. In the cold air we let out momentary wasps of vapor. Momentary. Just like us. Just like everything we do. Transient.

So we cross the road on the green signal. Like a herd of sheep being hit on their loins. We walk mechanized. Toddling on the black and white stripes. With chunks of metal flashing yellow into our faces from either sides. Momentary isn’t it? What would happen if we just stand there in the middle? Suspended like a pendulum that’s caught in its oscillation. On one side is the cobbled ground. On the other side, the cemented road that leads us to our destination. Below are the two colors that provide a hue unmatched. All around us light. The light for us now turns red. And thus rises searing din – of honks and abuses caught in their own symphony. Yet you stand there. With the cobbled street on your left. On your right your kin are waiting for you. Transfixed. Looking at you with a de-cyrptive glance. Not understanding why you’re there. But the cobbled stones know. And so you turn around and go back to them. Walking all over them. But this time you laugh with them. Because in that one moment of transience. In that one moment of rooting yourself to the ground. – you become what they have been for the past many years. Jagged. Walked on. Unimportant.

Or so you always believed …

Love Notes, Paragraphs: Most Romantic Love Letters For Her

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Love Notes, Paragraphs: Most Romantic Love Letters For Her

He wouldn’t look at me. The vestige of the body he found so alluring, once, has become a grody apparition-dreaded and vapid. So like a crumb of bread, jilted and forgotten for weeks on end, beneath the table. I move and stand behind him, sometimes beside him and then stymed and frantic, in front-in his ambit of vision. He turns away ,and quite suddenly finds a divination in the astral heavens, the leaves start metamorphosing for his sole revelry ,apparently  thriving on his very  attention. My heart begins filling with despair, my mind with impudence and flout. Nobody dares ignore “Tanmayee”. The beauty, he had me believe in, is. The eyes that idolized him are the same, adulation and all. Even the mind filled with the same rubble of ruminations and quaint ideas, which were so enthralling to him, time was.

I stand there, stock-still, benumbed into inertia, anguished into silence. The will to accost or beckon him, seeping out of me costively. I feel like a balloon languidly deflating into nothingness, into zilch or a timber slowly dwindling into ashes-to be blown about  wantonly  by the wind. Mind insensate, tongue obtund, i watch him swagger about, rosy and complacent, in the comfort of his sphere. I whirl about and retrace my steps back to my house, and well-nigh collapse on finding myself standing before his door. I bolt from there, scorched. All the memories of love-soused moments, cascading behind my eyes, drenching my face wet. I wish I could wipe away, with a brush of my hand all the recalls, dreams ,hopes and expectations-both tangible and conjured; wipe away the slate of my heart clean and start over, but if only life were that facile!

The night that followed was squandered jactating, like ever so many of its predecessors. Peace was elusive, repose even more so. Sleep fickle.

Rays of hope filtered through my window next morn, as I catch a glimpse of his blinds pulled back, but an epoch later, all is sable in my heart again. I see him not.

I see him not for days on end. Emotions of any kind appear extraneous to me. I drift through life, like an automaton, drowned in perennial silent despair. Lost. A quarter of a month passed, and fate was  up to its snares again. As i stand in my balcony, staring into oblivion, I hear a cadence of resonant laughter – familiar in ring, enchanting in content. My hopes revive. I skirt to the door and on opening it espy a woman, beautiful, wispy and effervescent walking away with her arms entwined with….with…..

Threshold of my grit had been breached. I stand rooted, mind screeching denial, consciousness hounded, pressured, conniving for escape. I slid back mutely, lay down, mind still incessantly darting about, looking for a route of extrication.. Aeons seems to have passed, cosmos work around the clock, without halt, uncaring. The twin cycle of night and day, day and night over and over again, right before my unblinking eyes. The being inside my body convulsed, as it reached finally, for a sterile ‘strip’ of atonement and sleep. The pills felt ligneous in my parched, “famined” mouth…..
The doorbell seemed to cry out, ever and anon and soon it thundered with stoic determination. So much chaos, too much bedlam inside my head. I lug my body to the door to put an end to the deafening din and through the clink see him standing, gazing at me with a soft inquisitiveness, then fluster, then horror. Soon after I get an impression of being cosseted rather avidly and i double as waves of nausea wash over me, ending eventually in churning out little pebbles of arid achromic affliction. I feel myself being held, winnowed and hoisted inside as a voice as honeyed as church carillons pour into my ears and my eyes find their salvation in his tears.

A gossamer smile is born to our lips. All is whole again, in this part of the world!

Representation Of Voices: Thoughts On Love, Life And Karma

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Representation Of Voices Thoughts On Love, Life And Karma

When do we start valuing things? Only when they’re gone? But, what if, they aren’t supposed to not be there? How do we then realize their value? Or do we realize it at all?

When do we start realizing things? When we come across their existence too many times? Or too little? Do we need a catalyst for the thinking process to tick off? Or should there be absolutely nothing in the head for us to think things through?

When do we start having a clear head? Is it when we have nothing to do? Or when we have so much on our minds that a deliberate effort needs to be made to wipe the slate clean?

Has your heart ever raced so fast that your breath stops? Have your insides shivered so much that you lose all sense of speech? Has your head swirled so dangerously that you fall to the floor? Has your mouth been so dry that your throat begins to ache? Have your eyes cried themselves dry?

What spawns such supernatural (for lack of a better word) bodily responses? Is it us or is it the situations we are merely a character of? Who designs these situations? Our own actions or the actions of others? Do we even have a role to play in our own life? I am of the school of thought that says we are not. That even an attempt to break away from what one may ascribe as destiny, to me, is an orchestrated attempt of destiny itself.

I am destined to fall in love. So I shan’t come close to a soul. But what if I am destined to not come close to a soul? Am I then delivering the steps of my destiny or breaking from its shackles?

But what might be bounding for me – might be liberating for someone else. Then, why is it binding for me at all? Why can I not be the boss of what happens in my life? It is MY life after all. Or is it?

I can sit and ponder over how I will take charge of my life – and take it to a direction “I” want it to go. But, will it really? Where will I muster enough courage to pull it off. Black. Black. Black. It all looks so dark.

Friends. The thought itself brings such a warm feeling to the fore. But, why no face? I have plenty of friends. Ones that you meet at parties, to those whom you organize parties with, to those whom you meet day in and day out to those whose voices you listen to before turning in to those who know you like no one else ever can. But still no face. What does that mean? Are they mere phases? Mere bursts in my life? Then why do I attribute such great value to them currently?

And there I mentioned value. What a freaking carousel this is! Do I in actuality value them? Or am I that parasite who values the exchange from the host more than the host itself? Can I derive what I currently do from a separate set of people? Will it be wrong? Not morally. I couldn’t give a damn about morality. But, spiritually. Will I be able to sleep peacefully knowing I might’ve wronged. But is it really wrong?

You are born into this world alone. You are buried alone. Then what is the essence of having so many relationships in the middle? Why can we not be self-reliant? Is being anti-social actually a bad thing? Or is it a virtue above any other. The fact that one is better of by himself/herself. How many people can do that? Can even come close!? Does that mean, that the one with more friends is actually a weak person? Because, he/she is not satiated by just himself/herself. Or is the anti-social one depraved? For he writhes in such selfishness!

Often I hear self determined individuals say, “I decide what happens in my life. I may chose X today and do Y tomorrow. And, I will be happy with that!”

And then there’s this other set that apparently ‘lives for today!’ But does one really?! How many times have we not succumbed to temptation KNOWING it’s future ramifications? Is that really living in the present? What palpable measure constricts time? Who assumed such responsibility to define time to begin with? We might notionally regard time to be of cardinal importance. But, is this importance ascribed because it needs to be, or because we, in all measures realize its importance?

Self. Self. Self. That’s all that matters really. Others are just means to an end. An end none of us can see right now. Because, either we are the ones prescribing ourselves myopic vision correction to facilitate living in the present or the ones who are too busy in the future to realize what is going down right now! In this moment.

What must an engine go through a second after a burnout? Is it gloating in self-pride of pulling such magnificence off? Or is it impoverished to the core for having spent it all – in one go?

The metal is shivering. The wind is blowing cold. The grass cuts through. The sand smells foul. The sky eats everything in its reach. BLACK BLACK BLACK.

There is nothing around. We seek warmth from ourselves. Oh what a beautiful being. We rub our palms and experience comfort like no other. Blow into our cupped arms. And breathe a sigh of relief. We are so alone.

I need food. I need water. I need love. I need friendship. I need belongingness. I need a title. I need praise. I need a roof. I need my parents. I need slippers. I need a warm jacket. I need coffee. I need brownies. I need the television. I need ESPN. I need my iPod. I need confidence. I need something to stand by. I need someone to stand by me. I need maple syrup. I need butter chicken. I need books. I need movies. I need sad stories. I need peace. I need war. I need banners. I need art. I need order. I need anarchy. I need myself. I need skin. I need a neck. I need a touch. I need to be embraced. I need to be kissed. I need to be bitten. I need money. I need cigars. I need my Vodka.

Representational of so many voices. Not just mine. Yet there will be proud hands going up owing to the fact that they need coffee. That they need art. That they need butter chicken. That they need cigars. That they need peace. And there will be the nervous ones going up on the need for touch. The need for skin.

Just like you need your chocolate. Or your favorite boxers. Or your favorite lip balm. Or your favorite heels. Or your favorite beer.

As humans, we like to box things. Categorize them. Organize them in our head. Clinically speaking, stereotype them. But we fall prey to the demon of all demons; groupthink. The act of making decisions in such a way that individual creativity and individual responsibility is thwarted. When was the last time you took responsibility for something that went wrong? (Take your time!)

I say sorry to escape things – not to resolve them. I say sorry to avoid things. To continue with what was operating before. It’s safe you know. Saves me from the yelling. The arguing. Saves what existed before. Ah! What magic this world entails. 5 random letters stringed together to arrive at a concept more sacred than the bond of maternity itself. But, it’s interesting to think about it slightly. When I say sorry, I submit to the other person and/or the situation. In other words, I subordinate myself. Not too many people like subordination. They like to be on top. At their job. At home. In relationships. In fights. While making decisions. Everywhere. So, the one who gladly accepts the “lower position” is seen as the one who gave up. But is it really him who is the loser? Or is it the one who doesn’t have the ability to lower himself the real sucker? The one who cannot yield his pedestal because he is impotent, in that regard? The one who hath not muster enough courage, for he lacks it to begin with!

Which brings me to the last musing. Karma. But that needs some thought. I believe in Karma very strongly, but my faith in it has started to flounder. I guess everyone goes through this phase when their life seems to suck ass. I’d like to believe I am not there (yet!) – but where does karma fit into all of this? Are my actions of today in cognizance of what I might receive in future? Are my acts of charity and nobility in lieu for something supremely awesome in future? Do they then hold validity at all? Because their very purpose is defeated. They reek of selfishness through and through.

But then again, isn’t this life just about me? Who will die with me? I have to depart alone. So why think of anyone else? Fact is there isn’t anyone by your side. They’re by their own sides. Seeking some utility of you. Sick jerks. Not that you’re an angel. You’re caught in the ugly rat race yourself.

Welcome to Life!