Isn’t Love Fiction?

How do you begin to write about love when you’ve been a cynical romantic for ages? It’s almost funny because writers would romanticize every damn thing in the world only to bleed poetry out of their ink. But love? It’s so heavy I can barely type the word and so non-existent and probably only in our heads. This might be coming from an emotionally deprived person but what the hell, love is still very much a fictional tale.

It’s a vicious cycle if we come to think of it – at our young blossoming age, we start to learn the basics and grasp the idea of love by adapting the bits from our surrounding and that defines it. We gradually grow into these individuals curating our own thought process around it, now you do have a little more than the basic knowledge. Suddenly you’ve turned 18 and you find yourself making a list of what love should look like, the necessary qualities that they absolutely must have, what they should smell like, how you expect them to dress. Amidst all this, it never dawns upon you that the apparent love you’re looking for, is busy preparing another list that you perhaps don’t quite fit in. So, you get your heart broken, have your idea of love shattered and list tore to pieces because what’s the point of anything anymore?

But then walks in another person and with every bit of uncertainty, you give them a chance to make a list for you. You give them an opportunity to just be. Turns out they are all the things that you ever wanted from your 18-year-old list, but you’ve outgrown that self now. You no longer feel relevant with your past version and you still try with every ounce of your energy to feel the love you’ve always wanted. But, how could you? It doesn’t serve you anymore.

And in between all the chaos of finding true love and ending up as a heartless wreck, when exactly do you know it is love and not just another unknowingly selfish act to feel the need of belongingness?

Sound Of Winter

Whilst the captivating winter wind crept inside the bones of my body, my heart kept crying for the warmth and healing like it had been in stone cold pieces, only rhythmically beating somehow. The icy zephyr swaying from the northern regions gently touching my face and making me reminiscent about the agonising odes I’d recited for my lovers. It distressed me to hear painful mourns about dramatic separation. For all the handwritten letters on a sepia toned paper had a piece of my heart and the scented candles that now don’t scintillate the way they used to. Winter has always had a tinge of melancholy in the air, in my point of view. No matter how tough a guy you are, it all sort of dissolves under a hooded cloak when the freezing wind passes by. It makes you realise the tranquility of the moment and the fading away of a strong exterior. It’s almost like an irony, a freezing weather to melt your soul from an emotional war. I, on the other hand, share a comfortable silence with my emotions and like to keep it hush and low till I’ve reached the extremity. However, the frost at night and the midnight moonshine have been suggesting me a vulnerable approach. It always catches me off guard at 2 am when I sip on this mocha and smack my lips, while I listen to the old jukebox playing one of the greatest Elvis Presley. This is how winter screams comfort to me in the most casual way. Indulged in the peacefulness, was also a tingling in my belly of the aches that my dear had given me when I first saw him. My heart had subconsciously prepared to dive into a garden of nothing but hopeful affairs of our being. I couldn’t keep my feet off the ground as the cold grass touched the back of it and sent me shivers all over. I was smitten by the sight of him. I could hear my heart smiling big this time. It was the coldest season of the year, but I had learnt to love again in the basking warm winter sunlight.