Stylus Entry - 5

Every time I fell in love, it was her all over again. Every time I decided to tell, it was the same sweet pain. I am no different from an addict; I am a slave to my own crimes. I am far from happy, and yet these are the best of times.

It all began in innocence, before I had learnt of love. It was that angry look she gave me; when I dared to hold her hand. I had no clue why I wanted to do so, but I did and the anger stole me away; I was hers for eternity. Lunch box stories and snack time tales, her presence blowing like the wind, filling up my sails. I knew there was something here, but what it was I knew not, her hand begged to be held, and I said to myself ‘why not?’ It was disastrous of course, the story ended right there. A classic romance cut short, a lady lost, a hero ruined. I was left groping at her cold stares for some warm comfort.

And then again it happened. I met her in college, she went by a different name, but she couldn’t fool me for long. My longing eyes had seen past her face, it was her! Yes! And lo! I wasted no time falling head over heels in love. We moved in the same circles, and we also moved around in circles. We flirted a little; me a little more than her in retrospect. We ate lunch together, and we spent time discussing life. I did her chores, and I did some more of them. There was no hand holding nonsense this time, but then I never knew that the rules had changed. The wind did change direction, my sails did deflate. I had done the right things, but just a little too late.

I am no sucker who gives up. I am the epitome of optimism, my time in history was at hand and my plans for it were rather grand. Here I was, in place far from home, and far from her. I was sure that this time round if I find my match I’d make it work. I was not expecting to see her here, no sir! Then again the quirk of fate has its say, and you end up in the same, age old play. I resisted long, I looked around for other wonders to admire. My fixation with my own tombstone got the better of me, I relented. I played the game a little, but the endgame beckoned. I was a junkie in search of his next shot. No point in being late, I confessed right away, expecting my reward. Sure enough the rejection came. I now write this, basking in the sweet ecstasy of the pain it brought.

I’ll delude myself that it isn’t her again to inflict upon myself this pain. It is classic conditioning and I respond to the same stimuli.

- Hameeduddin, P08022

Labels: Prose, Stylus

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