Thursday, August 6, 2009
“That love and suffering are the same thing and that the value of love is the sum of what you have to pay for it and anytime you get it cheap you have cheated yourself.”
Now who said that? And where had I read it? I must have read it somewhere and it must have hit me slowly and bluntly with an inherent belief in the adage. I just found it written with pencil in my own handwriting, on one of the pages of a very old copy of poetry by Chaucer, which I found in my library.
Perhaps I could never separate love from pain… My feverish visions of it would always have a man standing at my door, with his hand still holding the doorknob. He stands for a while, looking quietly at me with his brooding eyes. Then he steps inside, and moves towards me, with slow and sure steps. He opens his arms and holds me close to his chest with a studied calm. We try to kiss, but our lips wouldn’t move. I would gulp the cold air, and gnaw with restless fingers at the ensuing vacuum, trying to touch him, but he would step back, looking at me suddenly with stony eyes. A dry crackling sound would come from my throat but words would not come out, and the distances between us would continue to grow, threatening and menacing like those debt collectors who refuse to leave. Lot of doors would start to open into howling, empty rooms, and the silence would keep growing, all around us, until I would see him turn away, and walk out without a word.
I would often wake up with a cold emptiness hovering around my bed, desperately wanting to close my eyes, and go back to the dreaming...