I once began a love affair with Roark, the unapologetic
almost a scruff silent ‘masochist’ of a man. Ask my teenage self and then ask
again my 20s and even 30s – the answer would still be a wide dewy eyed ,
bobbing head, clamped hands YES!
How does one get over that first throes of limerence? The
first object that literally self explains the all mystical hidden meanings of
Love?
The simple answer is one doesn’t! And thus begins the undoing.
The little things, the inconsequential, the arcane of tiny items.
It was early 2000s and all through the decade when my brain and
self were mutating into an alien life form of itself. The pull to star dust, the will to self
destruct and conserve growing into their own beings together; friends even –
all of this co-existed with negotiating a rising career, detached and
destructive relationships all around; I was going through people unaware of
them – unaware of the self, too
Have never had a chartered map for my direction of travel operating
on tenets of intuition and doing the right thing in here and now. I know where am I going – I just don’t ever
know the route. A la Han Solo and his Millennium Falcon.
More so during that decade – decade which was a ringing
resounding echo of loss, of love,
of moments shining brilliant, of nights
as long as nightmares, of unadulterated
joy of being kissed and abysmal hurt of being abused – of turning into a baser
version of self and hating it.
And then I grew up relentlessly, unwittingly, despite it all. And
I fought, fought hard to undo the ongoing ravaging of baser version to grow
into a better one; fought hard to keep the faith and naiveté - it was Fightclub times n.
