“I have never seen you “happy drunk”. Why do you drink?” her friend questioned. She pondered over the question and responded with a teary-eyed smile. No words. If only it was that simple to quiet the stubborn tormenting voice in her head asking her the same question over and over again, she thought… Then she thought some more and tried to come up with an answer. Yes, she liked being liquored up every once in a while… maybe because it guaranteed bringing to the fore all the pain she managed to bottle up in her sober state… maybe because she enjoyed not being in control every once in while… maybe because she relished the pain that missing him brought her every once in while… maybe because her drunk self reveled in the knowledge that she still was madly in love with him despite the constant denial by her sane self… “Aah, too many maybes to deal with,” she told herself and blasted music to stop this chatter in her head. Indeed, there were too many maybes.
And there she was. Crushed, cursed, devastated. She had thought that she had finally met a match, a mirror, a man who would outrival her courage… but she hadn’t…
It was a mask yet again.
It was a spineless wimp yet again.
It was a love of convenience yet again.
Do you know the precise moment where love starts faltering?
The moment you start being “practical” in love.
“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.”
I will never know for sure if music eases or aggravates a lover’s pain. It is difficult, almost impossible, to define the function of music; but an existence without it seems preposterous… it satisfies a primal need to feel, to feel till you bleed out all those emotions… and then feel some more.