Of Life, Love & Complexities...

I am amazed at how mechanical my life is. It’s such an everyday routine to get up early in the morning, to get dressed to go to work and the usual tumult of daily happenings called life. Looking at it all, from a not so usual bourgeoisie angle, one would almost certainly relate it to a sardonic joke that invites rather repugnance and pity than any amount of laughter.

It’s rather strange how mornings becoming evenings and evenings night, days become weeks and weeks months and before one realizes it’s almost a full year of numbness, that persists from the mornings to the very end of the deplorable months. Honestly I do not bother to muse about the daily pursuits of life and the merits and demerits of it from one end to another. What I do think about is that infinitesimally small ray of hope early morning, which transforms into a weak flame by afternoon and ends up leaving a deep sense unfulfilled longing by nightfall.

The fire and hope that was ignited by the touch of her soft pale skin, like a dark sky on a stormy night. That same fire still lingering inside, like a never-ending thirst.

It’s like a heart wrenching sorrow that makes me ache for her every single moment I pause in my bourgeoisie life. I try to keep busy and to not think about her. To obliterate and block her out from every single memory... But she keeps coming back to me like a soft music breaking the otherwise calm night. I wonder why the otherwise comforting warmth of bodies had never been the same as with her. Why the touch and the smell of hair have never been more than a soft sweet smell of some expensive and ornate perfume. Why the light in the eyes have never been more than just a twinkle, and the touch of the hands never more than just a squall on an otherwise parched land.

Huh, I keep wondering why waking up is so complex, when sleeping is so very simple....