Love

If you consider life as a single ray of light engulfing the world, then this moment is but where it meets the planet surface. Most people don't complete the entire 365 degrees of life, the chakra of it. And some claim to have done so, even when alive.

Life is a strange game of sun and shine, rain and tempest. It hurts so bad and soothes so soon, you might never even realize what hit you. What exactly hit you is a matter of perspective, but the eternal screw is always down your throat, and there is always a knife stabbing at the heart. A love that can never happen, and a love that never happened, and a love that happened but never lasted. So the question is, where is this mystic 'eternal screw'. And what about perfection in love?

The thing is how do you approach love that is unapproachable, unfeasible due to history, time and circumstances, and yet you can visualise her in chlorophylless falling china rose leaves. The black dahliah of throbbing pulsations in the heart.
How is it, if you and her sat on a grassy, leafy rolling leaves and talking about anything under the sun except for the question that lies between the two. Do we, or don't we? Perenially evading the same roulette of the game, when destinies of both courses collide and James Bond wins big in roulette. So she may be the games that autumn plays, an illusion to the mind. Here and there, like the mayabi yakshi that listens to your thoughts and prayers for all of the day, or she could be that leaf that fell yesterday, floating around in your consciousness till you picked it up and leafleted it in one of your books, your choice really. In both ways the dream is real. You can see her everywhere in every street corner she hadn't even heard names of, in a different city and in a different country. Beyond enemy lines, when all you have of her is an address and a small photograph of when she was 4 years younger and had applied to college. So soldier marches on alone, with 5 cartridges and more, with a hope to live and come back to whoever or whatever fate is waiting for him. He hopes the devil in Ms. Jones didn't come to scathe the love that they once felt on the greens in Nowhere county in nowhere land.

So fall lingers, and an imaginary hand reaches out to this mystic lover, who often disappears in the vines that creep around her , and her face hidden by her long auburgne hair, that blow in the wind. Her hands rise, he feels heavy in his stomach and sits down to rest. Gun beside him, hand in hand, he thinks of her as the sun dances around from horizon to horizon. And after defeating the horizon, darkness engulfs her bodily shadow as it does his surroundings.

A love left, and a love never spoken of is no greater misfortune than a million dollars never made.

Love.