If Love was not an Emotion

Vibrations of the heart, edges pacified with clueless signals, aftermath of the cosmological end-games and the royal look on the face of the loved, whose heart is purely postured and the face is merged with micro smiles—those who get to feel and those who do not, all, but in the name of love, wishes drop and worlds collide, everything that is life, it should be.

But what is it, so much of conundrum that holds dear, pacifying our lives at each breath, no song ever describes or no person ever comforts, but that special one, who, with the slightest of the presence, whirls ones world into pieces of dust, so dear that it rebuilds ones soul every single day.

Everyone yearns, and still, the elegance of heartbreaks that continue to overwhelm. It’s as if one were placed in a box, and told to love the closed walls even if the suffocation gets to their demise most compellingly.

But love, so much of chaos that belittles the self-persona that holds dear to oneself. To say that one deserves love, and to say that one does not, all but a conditional equated with everything that is us. You see, we don’t love ourselves, but the feeling that someone loves us.

Colorless skies and cryptic emotions, all, but in resemblance, as if we don’t mean anything. And most certainly we do not, given the immensity of rejection that fills the heart with grief and sorrow. And one continues to sing, ‘if I could just die in your arms’.

To say that it is a feeling, and to say that it is just an idea which has been computed into the race, making it a compulsion as we evolved, and taking over the minds as we progressed. The connection is undeniably to be unparalleled with, and we are, but living the same tragedy over and over again.

To narrate ones love story, or to sit in silence, one knows and the other—perhaps too much. To catch a falling star or to get loved is about as equal as it could ever get. All our lives, and in everything—one holds fresh silk and watches new and elegant rainbows, looking so similar, yet incalculably different, while the other craves and does not stop, and in the end, this life—nothing much that could be said to equate with what it really means.

What’s going to make you fall in love, or what’s going to make you not—questions surround but the vulnerable mind has its chemistry stirring up a new song which shall touch you and never leave. It’s what is left of love perhaps.

-Yogesh Chandra