Every time I am with her, I am reminded of a Neruda: "I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me too."
Every now and then, from the random chaos of everyday living rises a warped relationship that is funny and entropic. I love her, and sometimes, she loves me too. Every time I hold her close to me, she melts into herself, rarely have I felt her melt into me. Those proud threaded brows, with their perfumed winged lashes flutter in random anticipation of a kiss, but those eyes don't talk to my eyes, they seem to be in deep conversation, with themselves. I know her favorite dress, I know her special days, I know her fears, her dreams, most of her desires. She knows where I live, she knows what I do, not sure if she knows my middle name. She knows I have a niece, not sure if she knows about the nephew.
Many years ago when I was frantically searching for a copy of Dr. Zhivago, I remember what our librarian Thomas sir told me, R, where these books go and hide, is a mystery. When it is time for you to make friends with a Pasternak, Dr. Zhivago will come in search of you. Until then, there are so many other yarns to weave.
I loved her. Sometime she loved me too.
This reminds me of all the dysfunctional relations I have witnessed. This makes me shudder.ReplyDelete
Summarized brilliantly in two simple sentences. Thank you R.Delete
This is so beautifully written.Delete
Books have a karma of their own. It's strange how books find their way to me...or how a particular passage can be so comforting right when I need it...like a blog can resonate with so much that's going inside my head.ReplyDelete
It's twisted, no doubt...but then normal life would be so boring...isn't it?