Some people meet quick. Others take long winded paths, as if on purpose. I’m optimistic, even if unrealistically, that they do meet. Like Celine’s grandmother fantasizing about the guy she was going to fall in love with, all her life. Who is to say, she wouldn’t meet him. Of course it’s not practical. But, then there’s no practicality in why my heart beats faster when I climb down the stairs from platform 4 onto the other side of the city. Or the number of times I check my mobile to see if it’s 17:43 yet. My heart out-thinks my head. Especially where trains are involved. Even if, mother had said it was adolescent-stupidity, she had already lost me to the romance trains generate (with or without Shahrukh Khan).
Some people don’t go through half-hearted cruel relationships that make them lose belief. Some do. I’m not qualified to say what the merits of the former are. I’m only aware of the later. It grows like a vine. I expect it to be poisonous. In spite of unrealistic hopes, as a defense mechanism expectations start on a negative. Low expectations generate an aura of mediocrity. Double-guessing, not being able to communicate almost expecting things to start going off. And to be stuck in this rut isn’t pretty. At this time, friends from the former lot, writing on how their lives feel inelastic with love and relationships seem distant, as they are. Everyone lives in their own bubbles. Perhaps they have so much of it, or maybe it is the times, that the incredible-ness of sharing real lives is lost on them. Or maybe they really are restricted.
I see the merits of struggles. I may not expect flowers everyday, but I’d value them. A heart with my name engraved, with ecologically sensitive iPad doodle apps, would appeal to me with all its restrictions. Like distinct triangles creatively made of three random squiggles. It makes me walk through the coffee shops in daze. Lost to the outside world. Focused solely on the buzz of this one moment, like the one just before you actually eat honey. I’m not sure what it is called either.
This demand for love, in the long term has become highly elastic. A small effort makes a huge difference. There’s no reason why that happens. Just a mild feeling, that, love is, a verb. The more you indulge in, the easier it is to wash off vulnerabilities, the nicer it feels. The dos matter. Especially as you lie in bed, waiting, to turn around.
PS: Long notes for an email Y.