"Show is over close the
storybook,
There will be no encore."
-The Verve Pipe
What happens when all your life you've
chased after something and it's always eluded you? Does it lose it's charm and
luster in your eyes, with time? Or does it become that much more coveted and
irreplaceable? You're doomed if it's the latter.
Love. Boy, I hate that word.
The one thing we want more than anything
else. The one thing we wish were permanent and is the least of all things
permanent. Is not to love. It's to be loved. And how hard could it be
right? You can love. So why can't he? You talk to him about his passions,
fears, ambitions (or the lack thereof). About his football and how he once had
a serious injury. About how he likes his food bland. About parallel lives and
parallel worlds. Of dreams, attainable and attain-ably-unattainable. About Blood
Diamond and how you've never seen it. About music you don't understand. About
pseudo intellects. About drugs and foolish theories. About tobacco and quiet
nights. About loving 500 Days of Summer and never wanting it for yourself. And
you listen too.
You look absolutely gorgeous when you put
on a dress and dapper heels. You match him step by step and just stop short of
overstepping your femininity. He loves that. You take his breath away each time
you choose to flash your wit or let down your hair. He loves that too. Then why
can't he love you?
Tricky isn't it? Beautiful, subtle,
passionate, crazy, smart, funny, and everything just a fortnight ago he told
you he saw in you and loved. But he just didn't love you. I don't get it
either. I don't get what twisted, cruel act of fate makes you put yourself and
your heart right out on the line each time and then have it lashed at with such
fury that it takes aeons for it to revive and rekindle even one-fourth of its
warmth back into you.
I stay up late mugging up lines about the Malaysian
increasing crime rates and straining to see the lace details of the latest Dior
booties, at the same time, and somewhere in the middle, it hits me like a punch
in the belly and almost laughs at me while it watches me reeling under the pain
for some ten endless minutes of excruciating torture. This love.
I'm still running the treasure-hunt
marathon. Just taking a time-out to submerge myself in this city, its odor, to
make it's eccentric life run through my veins (precaution: side-effects may
include erratic bleeding), and to forge a lifelong sisterhood and super-fluousness.
So maybe I'll find the lyrics to my music.
Maybe it'll add meaning and depth to some wordless tunes. Maybe it'll make
something only shiny plastic, actually beautiful.
Keep running girls. And watch out for the
speed-breakers.
