Loops of Longing

I found someone. Yes, again and again, as if in a loop, I keep finding true love. But in rhetoric, how true is it—if I keep finding it in different people at different times?

Maybe I am love. Maybe I am the one I am longing for. But then again, don’t I hate my guts? I do realize I’m a chronic depressive and see the harsh realities of life.

Maybe it is this realization that keeps driving me towards this chemical imbalance in the cerebellum. It does give me that "much talked about" flutter in the stomach. But it seems like I let my primal urges take the best of me once I’m comfortable with my partner.

Who is a partner? A teammate in a two-person sport is also a partner. When I ride pillion on the bike, the rider is also my partner. If I buy two oranges, the person eating the other orange is my partner. I realize—it is too much to ask of a single person to be there, whenever, wherever. I want love to be like that: whenever, wherever.

I am going through some difficult times. Soaring through the skies of the great Indian plain, I realize tens of crores of people have gone through the same turmoil. But what makes me turn in my already uncomfortable seat? Is it the belief that, finally, I have landed a home run—or is it the realization that home is running farther and farther away?

I made her cry today, also. No, not in the typical chauvinistic way. I kept bombarding her with logic after logic, question after question. She’s an angel and barely deserves the kind of treatment I dish out to her. She is a bit immature, but that’s one of those things that pulled me closer to her.

I miss her scent. I miss how she cried when I hugged her. I miss how she would scowl after each argument. I miss her.

I had a bad dream as well today. I don’t want to write about that crude dream. Maybe it’s the dream that drove me crazy. Maybe it’s the crazy that drove me to the dream.

Seeing the spread of black storm clouds above the cumulus, white, cotton-coloured clouds reminds me of her dark circles. The small black pimples on her bum. The ingrown hair beneath her chin. If I could ever make one thing right, I would go back and make myself a little more emotional and unrealistic. I hate this feeling—understanding, yet unable to deviate from what is practical.

I want to be somewhere else. I want to be a religious, superstitious, conservative guy who has his own ideologies about religion, politics, and social status. Why?

I was talking about love, wasn't I? It’s this feeling that makes me go crazy, and then some more. I want to bless her for getting married.

I am in love—and in trouble, I guess