Hi Friends,
For the first time, I would not be talking to you directly, rather, I would be addressing my words to someone else, someone special. But then, I would like you to share in this special moment, to feel the taste of love on your lips as I breathe it through words.
Hi Dear,
Londrali.com
On your birthday, I wanted to write you into beautiful, floral words; words that told of your resilience in the face of downrisings. I wanted to tell of your well-chiseled body, your mega brain and your soft loneliness- the loneliness that bore into others and make them want to help you in the most cruel way possible.
On your birthday, I wanted to write you into beautiful, floral words. But I just couldn't find the words. They were lost in the crevice of my emotion, in the lull of my blurry love for you. They had melted inside me alongside the pain, the strain, the reeling refrain and all the bad blood inside me.
I still haven't found the words that describe you in the most beautiful way possible. The words that tell of what you have endured over time; what you have had to take from everyone, the beatings, the strife, the words, the distrust, the heartbreaks and even the hunger.
But one thing I have come to realise is that it is the purest of love that defies eulogies; it is the sweetest of rhythms that sound like sleep and roiling; it is the closest of ties that have the thinnest cord. Cupid is such a stupid, blind fool that shoots a person with so many arrows all over just so the person can love a person. It doesn't realise that the arrows make the person bleed, maybe, even to death.
So while I go around inventing metaphors, I have failed to find the right words for the person I love the most. Two people actually. And I am scared that it is when the ties are finally severed that I will begin to find the words for these people, words that will reel into stories and pamphlets and spread to the whole world. These words were only meant for your ears.
But then, would I say my cold love were only a function of Cupid's sore eyes? No. I would say I have grown weary of loving or being loved. I am not the only one. I, you, and that other person who can only bear to spend the leftover trickle of love on nags and weary exhortations. We are all tired of loving because in more ways than one, we have both seen and experienced that nothing ever comes out of it. Love has failed us more ways than we can count.
I no longer blame people who somehow can't bear to see past themselves into someone else's heart. I no longer blame those, who like Narcissus, have decided to chisel out a life for themselves and with themselves. I could swear Narcissus didn't just live alone because he thought he was beautiful. There was something that told me he felt there was nothing else to live for except himself.
And this was how he by-passed the gentle sweet love of Echo, a forest nymph who had seen him from far and she fell in love right then. She besott him with her eyes, with lips, her body. But he let breezed by her like she was not there in the first place. And when she could not take it anymore, she committed suicide. And do you know what happened to Narcissus eventually, he was cursed, cursed by a god who thought he had taken too much from others for him to be happy. And the god, she hit him behind his back with something that wrought its work like Magun. And poor Narcissus, he looked at the reflection of himself in a river till he emaciated, froze into an image and died. Narcissus died looking happiness in the face, in his face. But he never got to own it.
Dear, love is not ours to own, happiness is ours to look upon and covet. Love is meant to spread through us like a wash of waves till it gets to our groins, our thighs, our toes; till it gushes out like a cascade and kiss the lips of the nearest everyone around. Love is not ours to own, dear. It is only ours to share.
With Love,
From Me.