I am typing this on the WordPress app, in an attempt to distract my mind from the crisis am stuck in. I had the choice of writing about where I have been stuck in the past few days that I have not blogged anything or got any writing work done. Then I decided otherwise. I chose to write about something, I had the feels for but haven’t been quite sure if I want to write about. Read on to know what exactly I’m talking about.
For the sake of sanity and the desire to distract myself from the continuous panic mode I’m in, let’s talk about my relationship with love. The romantic kind of love.
February is the month of love, or so it is believed. Though I beg to differ. I have always believed that every day is the day to love, to be swept off our feet by someone who loves us or by life’s small joys.
Having suffered a heartbreak not very long ago, I felt that February shall become the most
hated disliked time of the year for me. Not because I despise the heart-shaped balloons ( I actually quite like them) or the frivolous use of the one emotion that keeps the world going. Not even because I doubted my ability to love all over again.
Instead, cause February was the month when I had met my ex, it was the month when we fell in love, it was the time when we got married and as irony would have it, it is also the month when my ex, chose to remarry.
As (over) confident I might or might not sound, but not even once have I suspected my ability to forget my past and move on in life. Instead, what I had been dreading all along was the painful death of the romantic in me. Over the past six years, I’ve noted that words brimming with love, fail to touch me. Compliments no longer color my cheeks. I feel numb when I re-read the books that once made my heart melt. Songs that once made my heart flutter, fail to create a ripple in my forever tranquil mind.
Though my faith in the institution of marriage and the beauty of love stands unshaken, I seem to have lost the ability to be touched by love. However, am sure, love hasn’t stopped trying to excite me or to lure me into falling head over heels, but somehow I have turned a blind eye to its charisma, a deaf ear to its symphony and I seem to have trained my nerves to not make my heart beat faster except when I’m anxious.
This has been the case for past many years.
This year, during the valentine’s week, I decided to test myself if the above beliefs still hold good.
Though there weren’t any startling revelations but a few encouraging findings nevertheless. I noted that after a long break I have again started smiling more often. The impromptu smiles, the smile that dances on my lips every time I meet people. Not overly joyous but the one that sings my love for life. The one that had abandoned me years ago. The one that has for the most part of my life been my signature style. The smile that won me many friends. The one that has gifted me success in unexpected places. Though it’s not quite what it used to be, but is appreciably close and makes me more alive and mindful of my existence.
What about love?
Did I find any, perhaps in traces in my corner of the world, running in my veins or exciting my brain?
It would be wrong if I said that I don’t miss being in love, but at the same time, I’m no longer looking for it. I do not seek it anymore like I was till not very long ago. Maybe, I am now at peace with my existence. Perhaps I have to come to like who I am with all my flaws, to love myself enough to not crave for attention from the universe beyond me.
Possibly, my new-found self-love has enriched my life enough to make me see love in a better light where I no longer feel a void threatening to swallow me, where I don’t validation from a man to make me feel complete or loved.
Whatever the case might be, this year, I was glad to watch some of the most romantic movies of all times, laughing and enjoying just like I used to when I was younger. Of course, there was a slight difference, the minute the movie ended, I stopped thinking about it.
However, am sure, it won’t be the case with romantic books. But the good news is, I am so much into reading non-fiction these days that fiction reads, romantic or not, don’t lure me anymore. That saved me the agony of testing the impact a romantic book would have on my new-found zen state. Not that I’m scared of testing waters, but why would I try to put my peace of mind on the line for anything? Right?
I can safely confess that am not in love and neither am I looking for it (anymore). I’m happy to be at the place I am in. Peace and contentment prevail in abundance here and I can feel my heart brimming with compassion that has been my guiding light lately.
So, my February might have been a rather trite, ordinary month, but finally am at peace that the tempest that threatened to knock my socks off every February, has finally calmed down. As far, love, I think finding it in my own way, over time, is always a better approach than going out in the world hunting for it like a hungry tiger in search for a musk deer.
As far, love, I think finding it in my own way, over time, is always a better approach than going out in the world hunting for it like a hungry tiger in search for a musk deer.
The song on my mind: Mujhe pyar tumse nahin hai ~ Gharonda