A moment… or eternity?
People who write are of different clan. They are special in a special way of their own. Because they have a weapon – not particularly for others, but for themselves. Because they can articulate their innermost turmoil into words and can vent that out to the real world. Because, words are their confrere, their companion.
I have always relished in awe that I can write, that I can express myself, my grief, my frustration, my sorrow, my pain, my love, and my failures. But sometimes, your words betray you. They don’t just come up when you need them the most. Just like that. They would deny their existence altogether, and you would be left alone. Then in that time of urgent need, you feel distrait, and a process of random thoughts evade you brain.
And sometimes, that moment is stretched into days, months, or years perhaps. And through all those days, you remain lost, and alone. You find no word to use, no paper to ink, only a lurking tumult to suffer, to survive. You have to do it, since you have no other option.
Here, I am trying to fetch words to continue writing, but I find none. They aren’t coming up. I can see them, in fact, they are right in front of me, but I can’t use them. They are mocking me with derision, with contempt, but I can’t use them. Why? I ask myself why? Just because I lost one battle, did I lose all? Am I nothing if I couldn’t stand that one blow, that one failure? And what the hell is a failure?
You see a girl; feel like getting attracted; try to be friends with her; then suddenly you propose her. And voila! She denies.
Is this a failure?…eh!
I talked to my friend about it. He said that there are two ways to analyze this situation? First: see yourself as a victim and let the pain be inflicted upon you. Second: look onto the moment and let it pass, look for its intention, its purpose, and let it go; meanwhile learn what could be learnt. But don’t stop. Don’t get struck. Don’t get smitten.
They all preach.
For me, that moment is stretched into a lifetime.
And for a whole lifetime, I would be deprived of words. I wouldn’t be able to vent the anger out of me.
Brian says, “One does not fall ‘in’ or ‘out’ of love. One grows in love.”
I say, one neither falls, nor grows, one stays in love. Love is not a process; it’s a state, a moment. A moment of still, of eternity. A moment, when you feel the rarest of feelings: the feeling to be alive. Love is to remain in love.
I will be always the same, though I would promise myself to grow past that moment, that feeling, that predicament of love. But it would keep coming back to me, and I, yielding to it. I know I would never let it pass, though I would fool myself in disguise of trying to let it pass. And the outside world would remain silent to me. It would all be mute here.
It is all mute here.
It was all mute here.
And today even her eyes were mute. Mute, silent, but vigilant. She saw me, I saw her. Phew! I felt something rekindling inside me. In a flash, so many months, so many evenings, so many places drew before my eyes that I almost lost her as she drove ahead on her bike.
Was it a moment?
Whatever! But at least it wasn’t just any other moment; she wasn’t just any other girl.