Dear love, I had to tell you something. I am telling this in an open letter because it's too complicated a paradox for you to understand alone. Also, I kind of need a validation of what I conclude to be true. About love. All this started because, we both agree, destiny brought us together. I am not a religious person. But I definitely am somebody to trust the signs of the universe. And sometimes it just all feels topsy turvy, like I have misread some sign and hence I'll end up as a miserable old person because I deviated, contemplating if I have dugged down too deep and may be read it the other way round. I realize ups and downs exist but the downs still feel like the end of the world. This letter is about my side of the story, of a happy, or may be not-so-happy 365+ I was reading this book The Zahir and something hit me. How love is bigger than obsession, attraction or just merely sticking together to pretend we are normal adults. Also, I figured it's normal to fall out of love even if that person has meant the world at some point, or may be even still does, but love somehow subsides giving way to monotony. For a person as flaky as me, a blunt confession it might seem, that happens pretty often. But here's the thing. I have not yet clearly determined as to which feeling or phase is to be called love precisely, but there's something that fills my heart with sudden storm of sadness everytime I think of leaving or giving up. It has been tough, this long year, of doubts and fights and bursts of loneliness even though I wasn't particularly alone, but somehow looking at your heart warming face melts all my troubles, even if that trouble is an absolute anger with you. I crave you at times and despise you at others, but I love you? Always. But love beyond the physical kind or the materialistic or even the realistic kind doesn't exist to me. But what does exist is including all that without classifying and a lot more. So much more that the world revolves around it. All our attempts to be loved and keep that one precious thing alive with the passion burning is what fuels our every other action, work, words. And somehow with all that makes me me, you are one important core stone, tugging on which might just crumble the whole building. From making desperate attempts to love you (because I had no clue how to), to my silent heart wrenching aches after you turn towards your home, (for the moment of depart however insignificant just breaks something inside me) I do not promise to be your forever, but, if this thing called the universe's plan is working fine, may it keep us together, may it keep us in love.
Someone on the subway. Or at the crossing as you wait for the red hand to turn white. An Indian guy probably. An Indian guy with that exotic American accent. Well built and drives a Chrysler. Plays Drake in the car. Works at a fancy jobs under a fancy title. Never splits the bill in half and never lets you pay. And holds doors, and pulls out chairs, and takes your hand on the stairs. Stops and lets you enter or exit first. Holds you delicately. Talks about the things you love. Asks about you. Your day. And if you have been well. Subtle making out on the subway. A hard fuck behind closed doors. Not to mention, buys you a lot of books. Takes you to the sea-side. The Hudson. If the beach isn't possible. Walks you down till the front door at 2 am after your long walk. Lets you keep his jacket. Because it looks good on you. That's what he said. But it did look good on you. A new color that you never tried before. I lock the door behind me. And there it lies... One memory of you that I bought along with me. Just enough to last me all my time here. I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. Fire up my laptop. Grab that bottle of Tennessee whiskey and sit down to write. About you. All over again.
Like I said, A few words Over a drink A new love To drown in.