To be a romantic

I am a hopeless romantic. And sometimes, that's not a good thing. Being a romantic is like having a disease. It involves living in a world of unrealistically high expectations after watching a movie or reading a book and being thoroughly, unsettlingly disappointed with the mundane present. It means smiling to yourself when you see a dog sleeping in the sun and being at the receiving end of weird looks from people who happen to see that. It means walking into a cafe, ordering something, and settling into the cornermost seat with a quaint book in your hand and not wanting to leave for hours. It is this strange urge to be anonymous in a city that you know too well. It is this dangerous readiness to trust. To please. To give. To be hurt. And then to repeat. It is this constant struggle to fight back a lump in your throat on random incidents, texts, videos, book snippets, pictures on a daily basis. This constant need to be touched and known and understood at a new level each day. This craving to be someone different and better each day. It is never satisfied. You live your life as if you're on a trip, a holiday, or wanting to be on a holiday, and nothing, absolutely nothing, is real enough.

March 13, 2013

I look around and I see so much inconsistency. People are inconsistent. They are not what they were a few minutes ago. They are not what they think they are or should be. Their beliefs are not rooted in anything. Another thing that people are, is indecisive. They delay decisions until the damage is done. They live in this spiral shaped hollow of denial. Most of them. Including me. Perhaps it's because of the way we are brought up. So many memories I have are broken. They were lost and abandoned one by one as I added years to my life. I hated leaving once. Now I may enjoy it. 

I dreamt a very vivid dream. I was walking with my father and he held my hand and in the gesture, passed me something. Perhaps a piece of gold jewellery. But it was something that meant something. To both of us. I felt my heart fill with an inexplicable mixture of joy and longing. 

How empty would the world be without love. There are different kinds of love. And the love between the same people keeps changing from one kind to another. The first is the kind of love that fills the empty places in your heart. So you feel that you can never be unhappy again. That the puzzle of you has been solved and you are now complete. The other is the kind of love that empties you. It is as if someone has opened a tap in your heart and all you are and used to be is rapidly draining out. As if you need something and you don't quite know what. As if there is something you need to do and you can not find out what it is. As if you will never ever be whole again. No form is better than the other. They co-exist. Claiming all hearts in turns.