Monday, July 7
LOVE, silly!
Only when one is ready to remain insentient do the shards of memories come in so fiercely. Like sheep traces on dew-laced grass in the backyard that slip away in a subservient pattern with the arrival of the high winds. In fuchsia-tinted fragments, of times when a bottle of Merlot, a half-spent, scented candle from Auroville, and noodles hurriedly topped with lemon zest for gourmet appeal - meant love was in the air; when a midnight phone call, the initial, awkward embraces at the airport, and even well-timed silence...cut warmth through the nerves, the skin breaking into goosebumps...all screamed "love."
Are these memories merely good enough for the scrapbooks? To hold a grip on the fragments, as the fuchsia bleeds, corrodes, and makes way for sepia-toned wistfulness? Does that happen with age? Or can one, at an early stage, by detaching considerably from one's emotions, by steeling oneself to become adequately unfeeling, master the art of feeling the power of love resonate in every gray-tinted moment?
One can, if one looks through an abraded pince-nez, experience the sensation without as much as losing one's mind over, for what it's really worth. But often, the "objects in the rear-view mirror are closer than they appear," and so on it goes...
If one takes love at face value, it can manifest in the most mundane of ways and take one's breath away. It could be changing the baby's diaper in the middle of the night, taking patiently in the pounding on the dough, the clanking of the dishes and the muffled sighs and grunts over nothing in particular, or something as trivial as flipping the dial from BBC to an oft-repeated episode of Sex and the City when one enters the living room looking like half-dead Riding Hood at the end of a long day...
Love, my dears, is overrated. Candle-light dinner? Seven years (no itch), one baby, and an unfathomable-lot-in-between later, I'll take my precious me-time ANY day...Where's the love? It is in the music, in the blanket that mysteriously swathes me on a chilly night, and in the moments that I get to sit with myself and just take in the silence, smiling at the smithereens of memories and fleet of dreams...
Are these memories merely good enough for the scrapbooks? To hold a grip on the fragments, as the fuchsia bleeds, corrodes, and makes way for sepia-toned wistfulness? Does that happen with age? Or can one, at an early stage, by detaching considerably from one's emotions, by steeling oneself to become adequately unfeeling, master the art of feeling the power of love resonate in every gray-tinted moment?
One can, if one looks through an abraded pince-nez, experience the sensation without as much as losing one's mind over, for what it's really worth. But often, the "objects in the rear-view mirror are closer than they appear," and so on it goes...
If one takes love at face value, it can manifest in the most mundane of ways and take one's breath away. It could be changing the baby's diaper in the middle of the night, taking patiently in the pounding on the dough, the clanking of the dishes and the muffled sighs and grunts over nothing in particular, or something as trivial as flipping the dial from BBC to an oft-repeated episode of Sex and the City when one enters the living room looking like half-dead Riding Hood at the end of a long day...
Love, my dears, is overrated. Candle-light dinner? Seven years (no itch), one baby, and an unfathomable-lot-in-between later, I'll take my precious me-time ANY day...Where's the love? It is in the music, in the blanket that mysteriously swathes me on a chilly night, and in the moments that I get to sit with myself and just take in the silence, smiling at the smithereens of memories and fleet of dreams...
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