I see, I analyse, I decide.All about others. Their lives, relationships, ideals, morals. Then I write stories. Hide the files and let no-one know of them.Then I scream, I accuse, I unfrock unchaste sinners. Then I think of them more, and hate them more.I have for some inherent fear never analysed myself, never pinned up a tag of decision on what I do or say. As a youth atom, I have seen love blossom at every corner down the round road. I have seen them break down right at my doorsteps. The place I live in is, after all, the haven of all heart breakers. I see those who love a new love every half a year, I see those who stick for four long years to look for greener pasture in foreign avenues. I see those who burn themselves in midnight lamp to lie tired as black soot.I see lovers, I see players.I don't realize that somewhere down in those dark galleries lives a me. A me of lies, deceit, hatred and fear. A me who is obsessed with myself, my ideals, me decisions. I hate this analysis part, particularly when it scathes me, scratches me.I have lied, I have also loved. I have lived in a heaven of days to rot in hell for the next eternity to come. I have never really liked myself, never much hated too. But, I shall never be courageous enough to own up and bow down.I don't understand these modern concepts of personal space in relationships. These ideas induced in Indian society by Mr. Farhan Akhtar don't define which part is to be his space, which part her space, and which iota their space.She boozes, she is loose.He fags, he is manly.They date, they are in love.And love encompasses to limits where He says, "Get a life! I am not your dog". Where She says, "You didn't buy me as your slave".I have seen these, never understood these. The haven of heart breakers was where I realized that love must be bounded in singularities.I have seen men and women encompass love in domains of space-time, where honeys moon all weekend at the same place for four years with different keyword. I ask are they too dissatisfied with the term love?I see girls run elope with lovers, and the lovers loving their loves with all their love. How much is that love after a decade? Is it over? Or does it flourish with someone else over some other space and some other form?Till I was about 18 I always knew that love was when two people flung all cliffs to stay together because they had no other motive in life. They loved themselves, and they loved others.All changed with number 18. I saw people hate themselves enough to love. Bubblegum boys and spicegirls. And I saw space. His, Her and an iota of Their. Then I learnt that it was not cool enough to commit, to give and take roses from the same person over years, to explain your little moves, to cry out when overwhelmed, to adhere to the little demands of the other one. I mugged these without understanding. I could not apply them in the examination. Then I realized I was made for love that was before 18 struck.And now I know that love can be loved just once, and forever that once.
