Don’t preach to me about balance, the concept of it is lost on me. I am a person of extremes, I always make a choice… to love or to hate, to care or to be indifferent, to say it all or to shut up, to either be hyper or dull. Yes, it always is either-or. It always is about making a choice. No compromises. I live, and I live my way. Some call it the mad way, but I have seen people existing the sane way suffocate in boredom and would refrain from calling that “living”. Take my advice… be mad, stay mad.
What do you do when the person you hero-worshipped fails you miserably?
She was determined to rationally understand what went wrong. Assumption, she thought, was the convict in their relationship. When he said that is “our song”, she assumed our meant “him and her”. When she said she wanted pure
unadulterated love and he said that is what he wanted too, she assumed the definition of “pure unadulterated love” was the same for both of them. When he said “forever”, she assumed he meant forever. It was definitely not him, not
him… yes. Assumption indeed was the culprit, the only guilty party.
The other day my bestie seemed to be in a furious mood when she called me. “I find the stuff you write too intense. Can’t you think beyond the vicious circle of love and pain? I am someone who needs humour in the stories I read… Tina Fey’s Bossypants did that for me, you know. The characters of your stories are always in an emotional mess, why? I am left to wonder what happened to them with every story. It is maddening,” she complained. After patiently listening to her, I ended the call and decided to introspect. During that process, I bumped into this article that I forwarded her later. Read it for yourself, but allow me to highlight a few lines from that piece here.
~ The very last page of his (William S. Burroughs) journal, penned three days before his death, read:
Only thing can resolve conflict is love… Pure love.
Love? What is It?
Most natural painkiller what there is.
A few minutes later I got this text from her, “Love it is. I always discredit it. It is called self-preservation.”
Love it is, I rest my case.
In her bid to escape the mundane, she had reached a beautiful quaint town on an unnoticed Greek island. As she was sauntering around the charming little town, soaking in the beauty and peace of it all, she stopped outside a cafe noticing a pair of sad eyes of a woman staring at her from a painting; she could not help but stare back. “Do you like the painting?” a husky voice asked her breaking her concentration. She turned around to put a face to the voice and found a man in rugged light blue jeans and casual white shirt standing next to the pots of brushes and an easel. She responded with a question as she realised he was the artist who created this piece of stirring emotion, “Why are her eyes so sad?” The painter studied the inquisitor’s dewy eyes for a brief moment and then looked at his painting. After a few seconds of contemplation he demanded, “Why don’t you tell me?”
That’s the thing about art and artists, she thought. A piece of art only assures you that you are not alone in your wretchedness. It is always about your interpretation, your pain. It is always about why you feel a connection with it. Be it music, words, paintings, photographs or any other art form. The fact that she could sense the pain of the woman in the painting was only a reflection of her own misery.
She gave a knowing smile to the cute brown-eyed painter, decided not to answer this time and turned to leave.
After a few steps she paused, looked back, winked at him and said, “Efharisto.” This time he gave her a reassuring smile.
She entered her room, it was unusually quiet and not in a good way. She loved her solitude, but not today. She went through her normal routine around home craving distraction. Never did she feel so completely alone. Then the phone rang. It was her friend.
“Don’t use repression as a coping mechanism, your behavior is unnatural,” her friend blasted in a concerned tone. “This act of being strong, stoic, calm and unbreakable isn’t fooling anyone.”
That was it. The realization of the pain ahead dawned on her. It was only going to get worse. She had asked him to disappear from her life for good. She was waiting for the “good” to show its face. The pain was unbearable. The harder she tried to conceal her volcanic emotions, the more they raged through her. Sobbing and wailing in all her brokenness, she kept repeating in her head this too shall pass.
And one more time she had to cry herself to sleep.
“I love you, but…”
There was always a “but” in his love.
“I love you. Period.”
There was always “madness” in her love.
He wanted a love of convenience.
She knew love was anything but convenience.
In spite of it all, there they were. Him. Her. And the magic of the overzealous dark night with their wild heartbeats. There were no words for a while. Both of them were trying to absorb the reality of this moment; the reality that this, after all, was not a dream. Cupping her face in his palms, looking right into her eyes that were beaming with intense emotions he finally said, “In these few moments that I have with you, I want you to reveal your most vulnerable self to me. I want your raw emotions. I want the uncareful version of you. I want you to bleed your feelings… your absolute, unadulterated, naked truth. I want to know if you too feel the unnamed feeling of being raptured and ruined at the same time. I want to know it all.” It was confession time for her. What could she tell him that her eyes hadn’t given away already? Yes, she too suffered the confusion of utter bliss and pain. She too was tormented by the way every fibre of her body called out to him in every waking and sleeping moment. Before getting caught in the web of her thoughts, she decided to put it in the least complicated way, “I love you. You are the definition of my vulnerability, my desires, my fears, my emotions. I will stay consumed by you, because I know no other way.”
It was time again for their late-night tête-à-tête with soft music, some wine and dim lights. What started out as a regular gossip session between two besties meeting after a long time, quickly turned into a serious conversation. She desperately needed to know her best friend’s opinion on the thought that was haunting her for quite some time now, so she finally asked, “Did I disrupt his mundane life? He seemed fine with the ordinary before I barged in. Do you think I have left him muddled up for the rest of his life?” After musing over it for what seemed like ages her friend answered with certainty, “Yes, you did; but in a good way. When you barged in, he got the emotional experience of his life… He never knew he was capable of such intensity, such passion. Now he knows the difference between living and just being alive. You, my friend, are that difference. And even if it is not forever, he is lucky to have experienced the intensity of your love.”