A Past Called Love

I can look at happy people through my eyes but their happiness only brings back the moments which I couldn't relive. I've diverted to something imaginary, a world where I can undo my erroneous past, a past that still imprisons one, silencing the flow of ideas.

I had a place to go to when I was tired, I knew where I belonged. There was satisfaction and that allowed me to dream, which could make one hopeful, at points encouraging the dreamer to go beyond the beyond. It was my world, yes, I could once call it mine and seemed so permanent. Soon it changed its texture reduced me to a secretive man walking under a glaring sky with hands across the chest hugging the secrets, as though those secrets are the reason behind the survival of one’s life.

Now standing in the room where we once caressed each other, looking at the things which we both bargained and collectively owned it; the bed cover where her fading scent lingers; the curtains on which her taste for colours hangs; the framed pictures where past is meticulously framed; the wall hangings where the feminine reflections of hers are reflected.  I am surrounded by memories and mentally struggling to repossess what put us together, perhaps fiddling with the naïve notion of life.

What I didn’t know was that it was an accident waiting to happen, a looming accident which incidentally painted my colourful world entirely black. I imagined an amorphous hope that sooner or later she would come back just to take a look at my deaden life. What I wanted back then was to live, live for her, live for the dream which held so many promises. And the promises turned out to be the certainty of betrayal and disappointment. I was too bliss and it was the blindfold that bound my senses.

Arms across the chest holding my disintegrating self, the self that has been wondering like a ship without a captain, I trudge looking for shades in moonlit nights. Why love this body that temporarily  housed an impermanent thing called love, which I failed to see?