Principles of Attachment- A Writers Approach

The night is getting viciously sober, with winds rushing in such thirstily, blood pumping such irrepressibly and mind wavering such agnostically. You seem to be distracted by a recent feeling, one that has been going on inside your mind for as long as you can remember, and if there is anything to life, it shall be of the moments that make you alive. As the waves part and the moon sleeps such early, you are left with your mind and your incurable heart.

Well, I wouldn’t actually call it a burden on the heart, besides it beating irrationally condoning, conditioned with an overwhelming desire. Love, and the lament of the visiting flowers, they walk away from you like you are nothing, and that everything around you is at least something. The thought may seem to attract an arena of intentional minds, as you find yourself moved by such casual connections.

Perhaps it is meant to be, those restless nights, grey and purple sleep and the ecstatic bed sheets- they wait for your tears to roll down one more time. But you have been weeping for as long as you can remember. There is no denying your infatuation with her scent. You have developed such rare feelings, you cannot express what you are feeling anymore. At the cross road, the street which you stuck to each day- at the crimson of each morning and the rushing of each evening, you wish for it- never to have happened.

The girl occupying your mind lately, she walks with her new lover, holding his hands, whispering love songs into his mind- and reading one of the poems that you wrote for her- that day at school, unready to accept such a new emotion taking ahold of you, you had written an inexpressible poem for her. Perhaps she did like it, now that she shares it with her new lover. So many feelings, so many memories and each script unfolding in front of you, is it meant to be?

The morning haze and the three day cubs do not want to talk to you, and you are alone is this dense and overpopulated world it seems. The days are just passing by, with each energy drifting away from you, and your heart, well there is nothing of it. You are beginning to blame yourself, for all that is happening to you, and all that will never come true. All that you could wish for, is to hold her hands and tell her that you loved her- and there could be nothing more beautiful in life than she loving you back.

As the days pass by, each beat and each lung, they are no longer inclined to this arena, and as each star falls, you wish that it was you instead of it. The thoughts are unending, and in each, pleasure seems to be in fall. Winter would have been much more interesting if she was beside you, but she is not, and she will never be. How could you ever come into terms?

Outside, the leaves fall and the scripts recall all that may have transpired lately, and you- an inch away from reality, you break down and you cry and you do not seem to conclude. The angels are against you and so is God it seems, if only there exists one. So you got ahold of a singular script, whose skin was grey and the attire was immature. You look at it like you are nothing, how could you know- it too thinks that it is nothing as you hold it such unconditionally.

To be mutually held, you start a new script, one that has been ringing inside your mind for so long. And in that script, you start with her beautiful name, the charisma and the unfrequented thrill in the next page, it is incontestable, and you are beginning to feel like you never did yesterday. The first page, well it concludes in the first thirty seconds of your life- and you are feeling the rushing and the whispers of the three day stars, you are a cloud, such secluded from reality, a beautiful thing, never to be understood by a commoner.

As the days progress, you get lost inside the sheets and she is sitting a feet away from you, trying to pluck a flower out of the garden. You remember planting those colony of flowers last year, when everyone had been busy wresting with the new music in class, you found solace with nature. And today, show holds one of the flowers, it is slightly red and it is purple, and she holds it closer to her face, the touch is inexpressible and her smile is indiscernible. Perhaps that is what it is, and all that is, was never meant to be.

You approach her, your heart wants to jump out of your body, your skin dancing in-between such foreign stars and your chest overwhelmed by abstract emotions. You tell her that you love her, you always have and you always will. She pauses, the entire atmosphere in question seems to pause as well, with only the two of you consciously aware, and the winds-they no longer touch or can listen to such confessions, and when no one is there, she tells you that she cannot love you back, she already loves someone else.

Now that life has betrayed you inside its own scripts, and you are broken beyond repair, would you still get back with that unfinished script, one which you had started just a while ago? Well, life is meant to be tragic, and sometimes-it is inside our own scripts, one which we expect the least to be betrayed by, and if this is not life, then there is nothing to it. Do wake us, give a little smile, although injurious, and put your fingers to work, for Cinderella may be waiting for you in the next line.

-Yogesh Chandra

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