What is it like to be in love with him? She asked
It’s like being connected to a future which is only possible if the present were not present. Possible only if reality separated itself from what is real; from the present. And one of the many inevitable facts of life is learning that past, present and future are inseparable. The present merely stands on the hopes of the future and exists on the learning’s of the past: the atonements, failures you overcame and achievements you made. Past is the one that you’re drawn to every millisecond, and if you’re lucky, it’s only the good and the bad which reminds you of it and looking back on it, you’re met with a thousand different ways you could’ve ended something or begun something beautiful.
But coming back to the question, it’s a song which never knows its ending.
It’s the fingers trembling over the guitar when you first start learning it. In the beginning, the chord is strummed harder than you intentionally want to strum it and every note is held tightly until your fingers start to hurt, your hand is stiff, the plectrum is held tightly, you’re struggling and there is only noise to be heard. When you’re not a beginner anymore, the chord is strummed softly and you can hear every note and it sounds beautiful. Your right hand loosens up, it becomes acclimatized to the plectrum and your left hand becomes acclimatized to the fret board.
But why am I comparing Love to learning the Guitar? Because it is so much similar to it, as in the beginning, you’re not sure how to handle it; you’re not even sure about what it is, so you wear your heart on your sleeve. You’re afraid if you don’t hold onto it tightly, the feeling could go away and you might lose all the desire. But when things start getting clearer and you know what it is, you hold onto it faintly, otherwise, you might destroy it (Broken strings, anyone?).
It’s constantly searching the eyes, looking for some kind of revelation. And you stay submerged in them for a while, but the answers never surface the eyes.
It’s like living in a country you don’t know the language of. It’s that eloquent word which you never use in a conversation, because you never get the opportunity.
It’s as if you’ve been given your favourite book to read for one and the last time. So you read between the lines, you hang on to every word and memorize your favourite quotes and before finishing it, you take your time. You take all the time you need. And when you do finish it, you know for a fact that you can’t ever read it again or touch it again. All you have of it is all you’ll ever have of it. The words engraved in your skin, the smell of it at the tip of your nose, the texture of it felt at your fingertips, you have whatever you could take from it but you’ll never have the real thing.
What’s felt in the heart can’t be fathomed into words really. Only if I could somehow show how I feel, you know, like trap my every sensation and every glance I steal in the direction of it, a place where the butterflies like to flutter their wings to.
Like the air, I can only feel it. I can’t touch it.
It’s the dark fervour of a stormy night; it’s the colourful and ceremonious validation of the flowers during spring time.
It’s affection on Monday, confusion on Tuesday, love on Wednesday, hatred on Thursday, hope on Friday, love on Saturday, and confusion on Sunday all over again. It is all or nothing; really, it is a hundred different feelings on Tuesday and emptiness on Thursday. But I know it’s not going anywhere because the feelings keep coming back to me like a Boomerang, felt harder than it did the last time it hit me.
But people fall in love with people they can’t have, all the time. She said