When I Die

Once Upon A Time I Was In Love

Once upon a time I was in love. Once upon a time I was in love with someone beautiful. Once I was in love with someone who was beautiful inside. It was a dream. But dereams have a nasty way of going bad when no one's looking.

We met the first time in one of those dreamy moments when time stops, reality bends; everything is green and pink and lovely.

We got along well. We both had the same tastes; we both liked the same things; we both hated the same things (except for her fear of snakes, maybe); read the same books.

She was so full of life. Full of joy--you could see it in her smile. Free, warm, happy.

We talked. Oh yeah, we talked. We talked about anything and everything, and she was the first--and only--one I felt completely comfortable talking about any damn thing under the sun and beyond it.

The first time we went to see a movie, I fumbled so much I dropped ice-cream all over myself. The movie was Speed. I didn't even look at the big screen in the hall for more than thirty seconds at a time, I think. All of my snsory devices were locked in on someone else, obviously.

It was very mushy, all of it; but drunk on my first crush as I was, I didn't really give a damn about what anyone thought of it.

Then one day, she left.

Just like that. I did call her, but her phone line was dead. Nothing.

I emailed her about a month later; the email ID was the only thing she'd left behind. She replied. Said she was not going to come back--at least not very soon. I replied back too. This time she didn't.

The place where she was staying was shattered by an earthquake. I haven't heard from her since.

Fate. Karma. And everything else that governs our life. Guess they must all have a major grudge against me.

It's been years now. I don't know where she is, or how she is, if she's alive or [I truly wish that she is not] dead.

It's been years now, and everyday I hope to hear from her. Or at least get some sign that she's alive and well. I don't care if she doesn't ever talk to me again--but just that one sign--one word: Hello.

It's been years, and I never confessed my love to her.

It's been years. And I've never looked at anyone that way again.

We were both so young.

I'm clinging on to the ghosts of the past, refusing to let go. If anyone reads this, they'll tell me to forget her, to move on.... but I just.... can't.

Everyday, I think about her. Every night, I see her face before I sleep. Every moment, I dream, thinking that somehow, she would be with me again.

I'm insane. I know that. Only mad people do what I do. I used to tell myself that this is what true love is, but what's happening to me now isn't love...
It's unholy.
It's a farce.
It's madness.

I don't know what the future holds for me. But I do know that it will not be easy. I've been stuck in a time warp, nostalgic about how good things were in the past; and how they changed. Changed bad.

A lot of things happened in those years that I don't think I could talk about now. Maybe those things will come out in time--maybe in a future entry.

Looking back is a good thing, especially if you think only of the good times. But life wasn't exactly a walk in the park for me all the time. I'm not complaining, everybody goes through the grind, but knowing that doesn't make it any easier.

For the life of me, I don't know why I'm still alive.

Hope, I guess. I've lost most of it, but somewhere in some deep valley of the tattered fabric of my mind, a little light glows. It asks me to hold on.

Or maybe I'm afraid of dying. Maybe all it comes down to, is me being a scared puss. A wussy, if you like.

If Fate were to come by right now, and say, "Good morning; let's die." I wouldn't mind. Not at all. In fact, I wish for it right now.

But of course, wishing for anything is useless.
Lesson number two Life gave me was this: Love is a paradise. A paradise that is not for me.

It's not for me.