Posts Tagged ‘revelations’


Posted: December 19, 2011 in Uncategorized
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It’s about love. The phenomenon. And how it happens. You see, as of late I seem to be coming across quite a few people who profess to be in love. Which is great. Except that in almost all cases, the feeling is supposedly or genuinely not returned by the objects of their desire. Unrequited love they call it. But is there such a thing?

Coz you see, for me, love has always been something that is shared. It’s not something that can be enjoyed on one’s own, like a chocolate maybe. Although there Is a sense of sadistic pleasure in being able to devour a chocolate perhaps, or a tub of ice cream, or a dish of something spicy and Chinese, all on one’s own – just gobble it up to fulfill that stomach-burning hunger for something delightful, something that serenades the taste buds and gives you intense gastronomical pleasure. But it’s that ‘feeling after’ that’s significant. What is it about that feeling after…? You’re satiated, but not complete. It’s sad. If you had to share, you’d secretly hate the fact that you had to. When it’s all yours, you’re not satisfied either. Endless dissatisfaction.

So what is love? To me, it’s sharing. It’s something that you can’t enjoy on your own. It has to be shared. If it isn’t, it isn’t love. Unreciprocated love you say? No such thing, I say. That’s not love at all. It could be many things, called many names. But it isn’t love. Love is something that has got to be shared.

Coz if what you feel is really love, and you feel it for someone, that someone would love you back, always. No exceptions. Because true love is something that does not occur at the spur of a moment. It is something that grows. Like a plant. They don’t just appear, plants. They grow, and keep growing. And love too, like a plant, grows between two people.

You meet someone. You get to know each other. You build a relationship – of friendship, of trust, of understanding, of acceptance. And it grows. Like a vine creeping up the branches of a tree. Completely natural, yet with the power to destroy. Branches, vines, intertwined. And sometimes, if you’re lucky enough, this relationship takes on a deeper level of attachment and turns into a shattering bond that goes beyond everything worldly and makes you think of words like souls, forever and eternity. And it just continuous to grow. And just is. And you know. That this then, is something special. And suddenly, there is nothing standing in-between your heart and brain. You are complete.

Notice how I didn’t use the word love in that paragraph? I didn’t have to. You just know. And you’d only know if you’d shared it, at some point in your life. And if you’ve shared it, that would mean that the feeling was returned. It may not always be shown, but if it is love, it is always returned. No exceptions. You say you love someone and that person does not love you back? If what you feel is love, real love, the feeling would always, always be returned. Because if it is love that you feel for someone, you do not need words or grand gestures or formal declarations to let you know that the feeling is returned. If it is love, you would Know that the feeling is returned. And magic happens. Unless.

Unless? Unless one party decides to willfully close their heart and show nothing but the bolted door to the outside world. Love is not a choice, but to show it, is.

So you love someone and that someone does not love you back? There could be but two reasons for the predicament. Always. One: the significant other has decided, for some reason, to close their heart to you. In which case, what you share is love, and if it is love, it is returned, but if someone willfully walls themselves against it, there ought to be a good reason. And if you’re honest with yourself, you, the partaker in this phenomenon of sharing, would know the reason. There’s your problem. Can you fix it? I don’t know.

Two: what you feel is not love. What then is this maddening desire to stalk that significant other, what then is this annoying obsession that does not leave you alone when you’re not busy with other objects of interest? It could be a number of things, but it is not love. One might call them sub-divisions or even imitations of the real thing. Infatuation, desire, lust, obsession, boredom, craving for love, need for attention, need for affection, for appreciation, for an ego-boost, for comfort. It could be any one or more of these things. The tricky part is that they all have the power to create a mirage of love; tempting you with promise of the cool waters and magic that you, you thirsty and starved human, seek for in life. So how do you know if it’s the real thing?

When it is the real thing, it is shared. Always. No exceptions. And there will not be a single doubt about whether it is the real thing or not. So ask yourself, is it shared? It does not matter if the other party is standing on his/her head insisting that he/she does not love you back. Honestly look inside of yourself for the answer to the question: is it shared? If it is, it is the real thing. If it’s not, give the significant other a break and leave them alone. If it was meant to be, it will be.

I’ve got the hots for Blake. I don’t know if there’s a word for people like me but if there was, that word refers to me. The type that suddenly develops a devotion to something when the rest of the world has already been there and done that. Like cricket.

During that time when Saddam Hussein was the ‘in thing’, a bunch of friends were having a conversation about the subject and upon seeing my obvious obliviousness to the whole thing one of them asked to make sure I knew who Saddam Hussein was. I tentatively asked if he was a cricketer. Yes, I never lived that one down.

So I don’t always know what’s happening out there in the world and no I had absolutely no interest in cricket. I just didn’t see anything fascinating about watching a bunch of guys playing bat and ball. No, don’t psychoanalyze that. And suddenly, it happened…

I developed a liking for cricket. Just a couple of weeks back actually. I blame it on my Exs for it not happening sooner. They were lousy at explaining the game and answering the type of retarded questions that would only come from someone who at some point in life thought that Saddam Hussein was a cricketer. It’s a good thing I don’t hold grudges, sometimes. Anyway, my mother taught me, it didn’t take her long, she was pretty awesome. She knows the game. No, don’t analyze that either. Anyway, now I’m a fan. That’s short for fanatic. It took a while, but finally it happened.

Then there’s Blake. Dear Blake. Unbelievable Blake. Bloody Brilliant Blake. I think my teachers first tried to tell me about Blake when I was around six. It didn’t work. I was not too impressed. They kept trying, throughout school, and throughout university, but apart from a mild interest now and then, I was not convinced. There were no sparks. And suddenly, it happened. Two days ago actually. I have a paper on romantic poetry on Monday so I was forced to find out what my course content was and start doing some reading. And I fell uncontrollably and irrevocably in love. Blake, is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I think the term G-spot should be changed to B-spot as a tribute to Blake. Yes, I know how that sounds and yes I realize it might conjure disturbing images, but it just had to be said. There is something about the way his words splash around in music; somersaulting and diving in, surfacing, bobbing. And the dear man used to scrawl pictures and decorative borders around his writing and add colour to them himself. And he had a thing for illustrating the Book of Revelations too if I remember right. Isn’t that intriguing? Too bad he didn’t have kids. I would have devoted the rest of my life to tracing his bloodline, and marrying the first descendant I came across. And they thought he was mad! Imagine that!

*Makes a conscious effort to calm down* I shall now contain myself and share just one line from the infamous poem in which he muses about the creation of the tiger, which for some reason fascinates me. Here it is.

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?