Thoughts on love

Real intimacy. Real, mature love, is the desire to be with the person you love because you want to. Not out of guilt, pity, a desire to control, possess, or to prove something. I am constantly fascinated by how people express love, and lack thereof.
It doesn’t make any sense when you claim to love someone yet constantly hurt them. And hypocrisy does not fit well with love. To love, you must first honor yourself, and honor your lover’s heart. To humiliate and destroy them, in the name of social pressure/society – that can only be utter selfishness.

I wish people who loved actually understood that love does not obey rules. It does not seek acceptance. It finds its home in hearts, not in fancy houses, big publicized events (wedding ceremonies), and it certainly does not facilitate power struggles. You only learn to love maturely when you recognize the infinite power in human vulnerability, and you embrace it, respect it, and solidify it.

Those who Run away, the Abandoners, are constantly lagging, never catching up. Maybe their hearts cannot handle big, crazy, endless love. I think it’s a waste to have a heart beating, when you continue to dishonor it.

I love you. Those three words are a promise. They cannot be hurled at anyone. And yet words and bodies are sold to the highest bidder. The desire for desire and love is dying, while the struggle for power thrives.

My Favorite

I have a best friend. She’s around seven years old, in dog years, that is. In human years, she’s in her forties. Flake is a mixed breed, a hybrid, just like me. She’s also a very shy, awkward dog –a bit like me. And Flake is one hell of a tough dog. At home, we call her “Tough cookie.” Also, a lot like me.Image

I have never actually been able to write about Flake. It’s very intense for me, there is a lot of love there; and a deep bond, a friendship that has grown over the years we have known each other (and of course, we have had our ups and downs). Today, however, something happened. That’s when I realized I need to at least try write about the connection we have. I was walking Flake, and our other dog, Eddie. Eddie is quite a character, and one day I’ll get to writing about him, too. Eddie is nothing like Flake; he is popular, social, extremely good-looking, impatient, a bit selfish and self-absorbed, and well, a bit of a douche. But I love him anyway.

As I was walking them, something happened to Flake’s paw. From where I was standing, I could see that she was in pain. Eddie and I were walking ahead of her (because she has arthritis and struggles to keep up), and I turned around and noticed that she was no longer walking, that her hind leg was stuck in an awkward position, pointing upwards, and she was unable to put it back in place. She looked at me with her big chocolate droplets of eyes and pleaded for help. Eddie, always a handful, thought she was playing, and immediately got into his playful mode. He crouched into his playful wolfish position, a predator ready to attack, and I knew I had to take him back inside before helping Flake.

I looked at Flake, and shouted “Wait right there! Don’t move! Wait.”

She stared back at me, leg stuck mid-air, and froze. I ran back to the house, made sure Eddie was safely inside, and went sprinting back to my best friend.

By the time I reached her, she was in a lot of pain. Granted, it only took me a few minutes to get back to her, but you try having a sharp hammer nail stuck in your hand. I held her leg, carefully examining her paw for the source of the pain. She glanced over her shoulder once, and let out a soft whimper. It must have hurt like hell when I pulled out that hammer nail which was stuck in her paw. But Flake trusted me completely. She could have easily flinched, easily barked at me, easily misunderstood –yet it was a moment of complete trust and surrender.

Of course she showered me with wet kisses after, thanking me. But you see, I had done nothing. It was her who trusted me enough. I realized right then and there that the bond I have with Flake, is a bond like no other. It’s that, that moment, that moment where you know you both trust each other, and that there is mutual, acknowledged faith in the other.

Flake has saved me so many times over the years – I can’t begin to relate every single time this has happened. She’s been there through everything. Long nights of research. She would sigh and pout, look at me like I am the most boring company ever, and just go to sleep, hoping I would join her at some point. At one point, I had breathing/heart problems, and I noticed she had adjusted her sleeping position so that she would sleep closer to my chest. There are nights when I am in pain, and she wakes up seconds before I do, sticks her wet nose in my face, checking that I am still ‘okay.’

I do the same with her. She’s growing older, which means, more sleepless nights for us, and less fun. It means medications at difficult times. It means remaining strong, persevering. We both have to. Me and my MS, and Flake and her arthritis. There are two rules, both of which Flake has taught me. First, above all, do not give way to pain. Second, you must be there for your person, because your person has put their trust in you. It is a form of blind faith, blind trust, that humans have yet to learn. I have learned that people always disappoint, and almost always take advantage of anything remotely related to “blind” faith and/or trust. Rather than take that as a blessing, as a commitment, as something to appreciate and even more importantly, reciprocate, they let you down. It’s taken as a form of weakness to trust. To believe in the other. Dogs don’t do that. Dogs know it is a form of strength to believe in the other. It is a Law of Love that only dogs have mastered. And I continue to learn from them, and especially from Flake (who I will be writing more about).

Speechless Rant

I have been bleeding words for the past few months. And now, all I am left with is a few letters from an alphabet I can barely recognize. You’ve robbed me of my love for words. I hate that we shared our passion for literature, for poetry, and for stories. You’ve crafted one hell of a story for us. A beautiful one, no doubt. But you see, I understood you. And I still understand you. I knew the ending of this story. Foreshadowing exists for a reason- after all, I can’t be a literature major for nothing. I absolutely knew you would be the one to leave.

And now you’ve left, and I am left with memories that might as well be a figment of my imagination. I called after you madly. And every night onwards, 2 a.m. haunted me. I’ve begun to despise the number. The clock mocks me, it repeats the same pattern every night, and it is always the same result. You, over there, and me, over here. Neither one of us reaching out. It takes two to tango, but really, only one of us to destroy the other. What you don’t understand yet, is that you have destroyed the part of you that was aching to be birthed, to be born –that part I had held in my hands, waiting patiently for it to come through. I waited for you to come through. Boy, I waited. For someone who has never waited, for someone who takes life two steps at a time, I put every ounce and every definition of the word ‘patience’ into the promise of you. It was merely a promise. Built on words, again. Built on a vision in the near, and the far, future. And I held on, because you promised me, so confidently, that you wouldn’t leave. But that’s only one version of the truth. I held on because I know you need me. You’re not telling the whole truth when you say you’re confused. You can’t be that confused. You’ve unconfused yourself the second you said ‘Yes’ to me.

What’s left now is just fear. What kills me, what really kills me, is that now we’ll never know, just how brave you really are. And I believed in you more than I wanted to believe, and I was prepared to have my heart broken – but I was not prepared for this trauma. I was not prepared to believe that I really had no reason, whatsoever, to believe in you.

if and then

There must be a reason for my masochism, because each and every one of them left me broken, shattered into pieces that I could hardly recognize as parts of me.

Adamantly, I denied my failures, labeling them all as ‘Experimental Errors’ and

dragged my heart behind me as I trudged along the same path, over and over again.

But maybe you should know that when I first heard your name, I doubted both your existence and my sanity.

Being obsessed with ‘truths’ and ‘proofs’ I asked you to simply Speak to me.

I wanted to spill your voice into my coffee and onto my white shirt (ever so plain) every day, every morning.

This made sense to a cynic like me

and I subscribed wholeheartedly to a handful of ifs and thens :

If I could taste you, then I could savor every stage up until that nanosecond, where I can’t separate your bitter-sweetness from my tongue’s numbness

if I could hold you, then I could plunge deep into the holiness of your majestic kingdom (the one you so admirably protect)

if I met you, then I could forgive the Universe’s way of teasing me, taunting me with figments and fragments of you.

And when I do taste you, I fear that I will leave your veins dried out as I drink from those holy waters (because I am selfish, you see, and I must resurrect the fire that used to be me)

and when I do hold you, I fear for your fragile bones in my savage hands, as I possibly fracture them once or twice to fit across our new-found land (yes, our)

and when I do meet you, I fear for your lifelong incarceration in my chambers.

But really, mostly – I fear fearing you, and my complete and utter paralysis in your presence.

Inevitable

What happens when you fall for someone who is still in love with someone else? Why isn’t there a manual yet? Why do we deny the inevitable? I know it’s always heartbreak. It’s always excruciating pain. And yet I never run away. Today it hit me. I must be a masochist.

Heathcliff

‘May she wake in torment!’ he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. ‘Why, she’s a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!’

Ink

There’s only one way to reach you

I attach syllables and letters,

Yet I stutter through my words

I tell you that I am articulate on paper

You ask me if people like that still exist,

In a time of sexual inflation,

When the spoken word beats the written word,

When sex forgets about foreplay,

When kisses become an inconvenience –

Yes, I still blush when you speak to me

I am flustered and dry-mouthed. I desperately need my ink.

I compose long messages and carefully penned paragraphs

I ask you a million and one Questions.

And I use that same ink to record your answers.

I keep a journal, so that I may carry you around in it, the folded pages embrace all you’ve told me, and the blank ones anticipate all you’ve yet to tell.

You’re wary, and afraid.

And I know we’ve both read more than we should, because there is such a thing as too ideal, as too delved in the world of words.

We lose track of the realm of possibility, of today.

So I pencil in our meeting date.

I wait to painstakingly inscribe my notes on your lips, on your hands, leave you stained with my ink.

And everyone knows how maddening it is to remove ink stains.

But I suspect you’ll want to keep me.