“You have to try the herb once, it takes you places,” her friend told her. It did take her places. Places that were shattered, broken and full of excruciating pain.
I want magic. I want madness. I want “you”.
Her friend told her to write bravely. She wrote, “He said he loved me and I believed him. I loved him, I hope he loved me too… even if it was for a moment, I hope he loved me too… the way I loved him.”
And she bared her true feelings to the people that mattered to her.
She told them how he made her feel. She was surprised at her audacity. She knew they did not approve. She knew that they thought it was an absolute mismatch. But she still said it all and said it out loud. He took her to places she’d never been, places she could not even have imagined existed. So she kept trying to explain what he was… Not that anyone was convinced, but she felt uncurbed.
At the very least it was liberating. She felt liberated… emancipated!
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.
Being a lover of words, she tried hard to bleed out her pain on the paper; but all in vain. All the writing and words in the world could not help her even come close to the pain she was enduring. It was madness. A permanent devastation of a part of her. A part that made her more “her” than anything else in the world. She wondered if her eyes betrayed her every time she tried to hide behind the perfect fake smile. She did not know, but they did unintentionally reveal the agony that gripped her… not to the world but, only to the man who was the reason behind her misery. The absurdity of the situation was the fact that he too was suffering in the exact same way, but they were not allowed to rescue each other. All they could do was live through the pain and hope that it would fade in the future, if not disappear altogether.