Love is...

You activate parts of my heart that I didn't know existed. Watching you breathe, slows down the pace of my life. It's incomprehensible to be in the same room as you and not touch you. This isn't lust, its love. A glorified support system.

I see people my age, questioning love, questioning how real is love, pretending it's a utopian entity. And I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry and I feel blessed that I can experience what it feels like to make an eye contact in a crowded shop with someone and sense a cosmic wave pass between you two (no exaggeration.)

Love is not unreal. Love is not a lie. And sit your punk ass down and stop pretending like love is a straight up depression inducing drug. Maybe you just have not experienced it correctly. I'm not saying I have a really perfect relationship, I've terribly sad days too but even on those sad days, I know how strong this abstract notion makes me.

Love doesn't make the world look more beautiful, it gives you sustenance to live through the ugliness or the strength to beautify it.

Maybe this post makes people categorise me as cheesy, unscientific, or even emotional. I don't give much thought to the label, as long as I'm wholly experiencing something so different and positive.

She undid her bun. She undid her bun.

It was an unusual obsession,
Something you wouldn't realise till it was pointed out.
Her bun.
Her locks were evasive, while they stayed in that bun.
Black, brown or orange.
No one ever found out.
It seemed fairly normal,
like a sweater made of yarn,
That her hair was never open,
but always in that bun.
"Damned bun!" He thought,
Dreamed each night of black molten lava pouring and gracing her shoulders, if she ever undid her bun.
Her reasons were misleading,
The sweltering heat, she said
But only she knew the bun was,
Where she hid her hurt instead.
The bun held all the stories, she hadn't spoken about.
The bun held all the fury, she had never let out.
The bun held all the pain, that peirced through her pores.
The bun held all the sorrows, that on her heart had left sores. 
The bun held all the failed dreams, like pollen in a dandelion.
The fear of being found out, the fear of being discovered
And her hair never left the bun.
And then one day she thought, she could undo the bun for him,
Facing him she stood, gathering all her courage,
Closed her eyes because this,
Would feel like pulling a molar out with callipers without any anaesthesia.
She felt something loosen, a wall break down,
The dam had been broken & the water came swirling out.
But her hands hadn't moved, hadn't even touched the bun;
Aghast,
She opened her eyes and saw the satisfaction written on his visage.

He had only tugged at the stick holding her bun.

Your's?

(I know this sounds awfully twisted and full of paradoxes but read between the lines.)

I have always wanted the sort of love that drains you emotionally.
The sort where the turbulence defines it. The sort that takes you on an emotional rollercoaster everyday. A nefarious, sadist devil who is reveling in the angel-devil syndrome.
What I believe, is that in wanting such self-destructive  love, I have succeeded in processing what was merely a fragment of my subconscious into my feelings for you in the conscious world. Rather into what I perceive our love to be.
You drive me to a cliff. To the point where you make me want to have nothing to do with you.
But yet, that pain of hating you, knowing how much you love me lures me back into being your's.
Each time I decide that this is it, a slow, gnawing pain, paradoxically an agonizing thrill which is making my feet turn away, entices my heart to run back to you.
I want to stay away & I convince myself to do the same but then the hate I have at that point, condems me to a sentence of staying with you for longer & I can't ever seem to find the will to reject the sentence. 
And I know that being with you, makes me feel like a slave who doesn't even mind being forced into slavery rather enjoys every moment of it.

I hope you see the love, if you're reading this.

Today was a Fairytale.

It had been really long since she ever felt that way. Rather she had never felt that way. She had never felt so close to someone. So close that being closer beyond that seemed like an unfathomable expression. She'd always thought that fairytales never existed but well that was her way of dealing with rejection.
And then there was today. This was her unexpected, unorthodox fairytale.
It was like as if not he, but his fingers knew what she wanted to feel.
As if that strong impulse which had led them here was being the north star, guiding them to unconventional and unheard of emotions.
It was right there. This complex net of emotions. It was uncomplicating everything. It was leading them to each other's face even in the absence of light.
She didn't speak. It had numbed her. It seemed surreal.
He couldn't have been the same guy who just told her that he couldn't do without her ever.
He couldn't have been in her arms, she said to her shocked mind, he couldn't have been the same guy she had irrevocably been in love with for so long.
But he was.
And that was all that mattered.

And Macbeth was an insecure man.

English lectures in my school never really fits the definition of a 'class in progression'.

The number of students actually focussing & paying attention virtually trickles down from the entire strength of a class of 30 something to barely even a fourth of that number.

But today something was different.
Today, even admist all that noise & absolute disarray in class, one sentence somehow caught my attention. That ONE sentence entered the crevices of my mind & refused to leave my thinking capacity till I actually realized it's depth.

"And Macbeth was an insecure man."

As I walked down the cobbled path leading away from my Math class, the emotion which the sentence pertained to gradually began to seep in.

That emotion hit me in my face, slapped me so hard that I wanted to sit somewhere and start crying.

Yes I am insecure. And so was Macbeth.

I don't exactly want to tell people that I am this insecure person as insane as that protagonist of that tragedy, but I can sympathize with him. I can feel that insecurity which comes with attainment of something you have been wanting for long.

Yes I have  wanted someone for really long. And yes I get insecure about that person, too fast, too soon.
It is a part of my personality now, can I really even change that?
Can I stop being insecure?

I don't really think I can.

Now immature as this definitely sounds I don't even want to change it. I don't want to give up on this fear. It keeps me attached.

And well that sense of security might be far from becoming a reality but do I really want it?

My Mom thinks that there's a certain greatness which lies in accepting the flaws in your personality.
So there is some greatness that I've achieved by admitting that I'm insecure..:P

So for now I won't change a thing, I'll just go on reveling in this new-found 'greatness'..:)

Hope and Change and Love

"If it's gonna be a rainy day
There's nothing we can do to make it change
We can pray for sunny weather
But that won't stop the rain."

-Please Don't Stop The Rain
(James Morrison)

This was one song which I chose to skip, everytime it played on my iPod. But today, half exhausted & in a condition that made my eyes look as hollow as that of a zombie, I didn't really feel energetic enough to reach out to my iPod & change the song. So I let it play.

So I feel like I welcomed change!
Change is a positive thing. We all agree to that! We all say that, does anyone even believe in that?

This 'change' was like a car, it dropped me off for my date with 'hope'.

Yes I'm philosophical right now.

Why?
Well I just had a good day. :P

I mean really I know it's not a personal diary but after so long, I felt love around me, wonderful sweet love around me!
(No reference to making love. :l)

It is such a beautiful feeling! :')

So maybe that's what makes up our life.
(Deliberate error cause it sounds 'cool' :P)

Hope and Change and Love.