The Art of Love and Rejection
One of the fewer, unlisted laws of nature would suggest that, in every moment between this life and the next-needs a celebration, which shall have its glow printed onto the sheets, one which you will wear on your final day. And what is it, the art that is so special about love and rejection.
Today is my 24th birthday, and I should be happy, with each second giving me nothing but open joy, and my heart- there is nothing left of it. The clouds and the clotted curtains wait for me such steadily-the wine which is to drop and the silk which needs to be stripped. My body is getting naked, with each touch lasting for a major three light years afar-alight and incontestable love from the other side.
Love is but a celebration, and on my birthday- when the skin is no longer attached to the same silk- one which had me rushing with thoughts during my seventeen, and her scent, the indecent lines and the beauty of her words, her three day promises and her affection towards me. Now that is life and all its dynamics intertwined such classically. Juliet may have felt same towards Romeo, I just know.
To be placed inside this room, is like getting to explore the rays of my first touch- one which should not have been and is rather fading each new dawn, and the speakers beside me, the metallic voices that want to make its way out of the chords. I still remember dancing to those songs, with her hands tied to my chest and her silk undressed, ready to dance with insanity and other things- ones which the commoner would never understand.
To feel the rays of love and hate and all other things- it is a gift to all. There is no greater way of showing love by admitting it- or having the odesity to even confess ones love for the other, she would have been waiting for you all this while- no matter the delays in heaven. And mutual love- such things which are so ancient and scarce-there is no one left, there never was.
On a fine day-the 6th of March, it is my birthday and as I walk through the dense streets and the insecure paths crafted by my own misery, I can see the rhythms stained on the same street which I used to walk quite a while ago. I would have been seventeen, with her touch beside me, I was in love with her skin and everything around her. There is nothing more that I could ask of- and all that is, her scent and her endless words giving me nothing but a new script every dawn, making its way to the center of the body- acting like it never knew me although it was clustered to me like the rings of Saturn.
But today, she holds someone else’s hands, just like she held mine on the eve of 2011. It is tragic and it is beautiful. To see her shadows, even the wolves had always told me that I would never see her again. Perhaps they were true, or what is even the slightest touch of truth then?
My pulses beat as if it never did before, my heart collapses and my chest implodes-there is nothing left inside me but love and hate for myself- her skin and her soul-she does not even know. As she holds the new hands beside her- the new lover, she is compelled to think about me- at least for three seconds. Inside the lines, she does remember, “I will never let go….I will never let go.”
I also remember these unending words as well, which made me happy and sad at the same time, trying to overwhelm me with new emotions- I wish I never felt such things at the first place. Now that I am a breathing statue, tied to my own imaginations-there is nothing that could love me, or a thing for the poor mind which has been loved for once at least, and inside each new verse, a new emotion, one that has never been felt, I shall write, And today is my birthday, so let me celebrate this life if it is meant to be.
-Yogesh Chandra
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