The truth and choice of love

Truth has no meaning by itself. It is only when you believe something to be true that it becomes your truth. Each one of us chooses our own truth according to our own reality or perception of reality.

Choosing. Being able to choose on your own is such heady power. It is freedom but a freedom that always seems to be tied down somewhere to someone and sometimes to the choices we made in the past and also sometimes even to choices we didn't get to make, like the family, place and religion we are born into.

Choosing between entities of non-choice (entities by birth) and a choice you grew to make, like a friend is like asking me to choose between birth and life that is lived. Each has its own place but so intricately and subtly intertwined that you never know when one would affect the other.

The choices I now make are a result of where I was born and how I was brought up (not a time when I had a choice because, even if one is given a choice at that impressionable age, it is always an influenced decision. Not an independent informed decision) and as a result of the experiences (tangible and intangible) I had and how I understood and perceived them.

Love is a choice. It is said to be freedom. I consider it to be freedom when it is "true". It is my religion. But like most religions today, it is warped and misunderstood, even by its followers. and like religion, is left to the interpretation of its followers/subscribers.

But it so often seems to me that the things we claim to do out of love for a person don't come as a choice. Some loves (yes there is more than one and yet none) are just autocratic. They are anaerobic. And some is just fear wrapped in syrup.

Very few instances of love are just free fresh air that you can take in and let out whenever you want. That is a dream. An ideal. A goal. A state of nirvana one would try to achieve and also never be understood for that.

That is the dream I choose to believe. That which is an illusion, a chemical reaction, a mirage, a fallacy to others, I believe to be my truth. And i choose love each day. In its varied forms and colors and emotions. "Each day I choose the truth I believe in."

Dear You, I wish.

Dear You,

I don't know how to say this. Amidst this affection, friendship and joy we've shared, there is this deeper affection in me growing for you.

I don't think you've realised it. If you have, then you are afraid to acknowledge it and negate it because you don't feel the same.

Or I hope you've realised it and you're afraid to acknowledge because you feel the same! How I wish it were that way. It is so intense, even I pretend it does not exist. Only sometimes. Most of the times, it rears its fiery head out all the time.

I wish it were only fear of how to move from friendship to love.
I wish it were the fear of betraying your best friend, so long gone.
I wish it were for fear of telling me.
I wish it were the fear of meeting me again, for the first time.
I wish it were the fear of holding my hand again, for the first time.
I wish it were the fear of saying "I love you". But in a completely different plane.
I wish it were the fear of riding with me again, for the first time.

This started as a creative template for someone else. All in an attempt to distract me. But the more I write, the more I find it is all about you. Rather, for you.

I wish I didn't have the fear of showing you.
I wish I didn't fear telling you.
I wish I didn't fear feeling fully.
I wish I didn't fear uncertainty in this.
I wish I didn't fear losing you.
I wish, shockingly, I didn't fear you. 

Words or Lines

Every word that every one says
Creates lines in my mind
An image. Running like a reel.
One that is slipperier than an eel.
Hard to capture.
But one that is just in my nature.

Words. They are what must be weighed.
They are what I have wielded.
Not knowing their power.
To create. To break. To hurt.
They are what I have used.
To hide. To take shelter behind them. To prevent.
In anonymous ways.

Lines. I lose myself in.
Every stroke. Every dot.
Leaves me waking. Hour after hour.
Creates beauty, even if incomprehensible.
Words, if so, are just words.

Words require thought. Rhythm. A wordrobe.
Lines flow. They require emotion. Inclination.
Both require paper and ink!
Both I have utilised.
To love. To create. To energize.
To express. To justify. To entertain.

Both I need to command and control.
To recall whenever and however.
But more importantly.
I need to command and control
What lies within. The source.
Be it
Words or lines.

Musings on the Muse

Didn't see her face the first time I sat down. Just saw her nimble hands go around her grandfather as he picked her up from the bus seat. They looked like they were about to dance. When she climbed back on to the bus, she was so frail I saw. She'd be around 7 years old. Her pink dress hanging loosely. As were her hands. Barefooted she walked to the seat in front of mine where her grandmother and little brother were awaiting her.


And then she smiled.

There the picture changed immediately. She came alive. Honestly, I came alive. And the smile stayed. On her face and mine. I went on to laugh, unable to take my eyes off her eyes.


She sat on her grandfather's lap, leaning against the seat in front of theirs and her arms caressing her grandfather's face. As I gazed wonderstruck at her movements and expressions, I suddenly realized she might be mildly mentally challenged. But all that was forgotten as we made eye contact. And she smiled.


Uff! I fell in love. Every time she did that!

The most beautiful person I have ever met. None so alive I have seen in a very long time.

She reached out and held the hand of the stranger sitting in the adjacent seat. The picture of the tiny hand on the thumb of that adult. What a photograph it would have made. The picture is going to be etched in my mind for a really long time to come. Apparently that man didn't think so. He smiled very edgily and turned away. And didn't look her way after that. (Or if he did, I didn't notice cos  I was too busy scuba diving in her eyes.)


Love is so powerful, no? It can make you very uncomfortable if you are unaccustomed to it.


Love is amazing. How it springs from just anywhere and anybody. This little girl, fearlessly held out her hand and I held those tiny soft fingers. And such joy exploded on her face at that touch. Takes such courage to reach out and love. Express love. I was envious of her for being able to do that with such ease and grace. And win a person's heart instantly. Any person's. To be able to love all, in spite of everything, despite everything is such a beautiful thing and easier said than done.


It's been two days since I saw her and she reminded me of the wonder of love. And her face and her eyes keep flashing in my mind and all I can do is smile and feel a strange peace settle in. It is strangely, peacefully unsettling!

There are days I have when I just ooze love for just about everything and everyone in the entire world. Those are rare and wondrous occasions. She has taught me how lovely it is to be that way all the time. Atleast strive to be so. No doubt will be met by pessimism and negativity on the way. But it's love we are talking about here. Love. Just pure joy within. That is when it happens. Clichéd as all this sounds, it is true.  And is wonderfully exhilarating. Makes you feel nothing can stop you. Everything then becomes a joy and not routine at all. Spontaneity comes along with it.

I'm back in love. And it is great.


(Dedicated with gratitude to the anonymous lovely Muse.)