The Demon She Left Behind

Love is an incomprehensibility. Follies and boons withheld- I like to think of love as a complete organic package of unadulterated self-discovery. Self-discovery, because when you pledge her your love, you agree to keep no differences and see her as you would see yourself- with nothing but the naked truth; whether it be while playful courtships, adventurous endeavours or moral strengthening. Otherwise love would be nothing but an evolutionized form of deceitful friendship; like the Nile- a season of plenty; followed by a season of hallowed nothingness, when it does not want to understand the responsibilities it bears. That precisely, is when it ceases to exist and becomes more of an obtusely top-heavy liability...an afterthought at the back of your head!

Colloquial definition of a relationship runs at the ragged edge of cinematographic inferences (in some cases, only the erotic), so was mine! It took both of us more than a thousand nights of moist-eyed insomnia to realize that we weren't synchronously compatible. Living under the dubious constraints of promises, sacrifices and sexual prowess, all that remained of it was nothing but a well-written love parody without the Utopic compassion; and all of it, like the sweet poison of a seasonal fruit. It was not just a homogeneity of deceptive but alluring fondness that was only skin-deep, but rather an intensely toxic masochist mechanism- when it lasted it was beautiful, now that it ceases to last, the pain, even more delicious!

I would still admit to my feelings for her and I know full well that she would inadvertently reflect the same with a sense of resignated helplessness- because the love that was set afire when the bodies touched and kisses melted, was when passion was set free; and at that hour, none of us would ever give in to the absurdness of the unforeseeable future of this relationship, nor heed to the differences which more than often dishevelled the sweet chastity of  our relationship. It was this lunacy that kept us glued as love contaminated life and survival; sprouting immediately from the time we fell- 'in love or lust?'- that did not matter.

As a matter of fact I still wear the ring she gave me while I scribble. Maybe because I have fond memories of her, or maybe without it, the white patch on my fourth-finger, in this otherwise tanned carcass would remind me that she still exists outside my dreams and beyond my life; and all that I try to block out from my life in a chronic desperado- like a frightened kid who covers his ears and sings lullabies to himself at night, so as to not hear his imaginary monsters- is all that would forever exist within me, as an inbred demon; who feeds on my existence and introspections....