It is at these times when all of a sudden I am thrown into writing, do I believe that I am a writer. It provides my identity to no one else but myself. It is in this silent night that I am realizing suddenly how beautiful Paris really is. So how do I arrive at this conclusion now? Lo and Behold! The woman. The suggestion of a novel. The writer. The forgotten cycle! A mere 30 pages into Milan Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" makes me want to scream out loud in public the all-too-deeply guarded emotions I have been feeling for the last few days. And why should I not?
What good will it do me to try to be someone else anymore? The truth is simple. I am in love with Paris. I miss being in Paris. I miss living with the weight of all my expectations. I wonder how a novel can turn a whole idea upside down through just a few pages! The idea in question is my escapism. Staying away from the woman I love, from the place I adore, from the truth of my life - seems like a good idea when the burden weighs me down. But in this lightness of living my life away from its soul, resides a heaviness too unknown.
I wonder what fruits the trees of practicality flower. In your quest of being practical you will forever be a little too blind to see the artistry of emotions. Each stroke of the brush on the white canvas is like a thousand whips on the delicate body and yet, as the image starts to form, the wounds disappear into subsequent layers of colours. You ask me to refrain, to think, to wait, to accept.
I dare you; to dream, to enact, to walk and to love. Yes, to love! Read it again, To love.
O you idiots! I was born to love. To not listen to your advice. To only do as my heart commands. And it is not strange really that I have not found a single partner on this joy-ride of life!
What can you ever trade with me now? I am the richest person I know! I possess in me the knowledge that the woman I love is the only witness to my reaction to the first glimpse of the magnanimous Eiffel tower! And there would be no one else. For like Kundera says, things that happen only once become nostalgia! I wouldn't have it any other way. The best moments of my life have been spent awake and alive.
What can you offer in exchange my dear practical, intelligent friend? My first footsteps along the Seine have been touched by Eternity! Who the hell can undo the reality now? Do not ever come to trade with me until you are ready with the required investment.
Well, you really wont understand. The wine has finally made me high! It has taken it a damn week to show its effect.
In this melancholy of a calm Dresden night, I long for Paris. I long for my true self. I am in love. O I am so much in love! How I wish my name would disappear from the waiting list! Why should a lover be constrained by absurd notions of practicality? It's futile to infuse sense into madness and probably madness into sense, too. Sense brings boundaries. How do you justify those for the unbound?
Do I want her to read this? Yes, I do. Do I want them to read it? I don't know. Do I want you to read it? I have only been talking to you.
But I don't care anymore. I do not care at this moment about the questions you repeat, for like Kundera puts it, repetitions are boring.
Damn, I am too confident tonight! Take my hand my love, if you please. Hearts which break were in a little too much hurry to form, you see. It's not your fault. It's not my fault.
I noted on the banks of Seine that I have vertigo. But now I am prodded to play the Kundera-game with the master himself!
My dear author, you say : "Anyone whose goal is something higher must expect some day to suffer vertigo."
What if I turn your idea upside down? What if anyone with vertigo lives with the rush of only going higher?
How will a practical you answer me? Gravity will always weigh you down!
Yes, lightness is unbearable but it is truly so only for the unbound. I have never felt the desire to be so real. For once, I truly don't care. You and your judgments are so insignificant (if that's what you are busy with at this moment).
May be I will miss out on Paris. But tell me Paris, what will you be without my love? You don't want to see yourself in my eyes when you are not bathed in love. You cannot. You my dear Paris, are so accustomed to love, aren't you? You are so habituated with all the punctuations of love that I know you will be hurt if even an ounce of this love is absent. No Paris, you are not Calcutta. You are way too sophisticated. Your chaos needs too many parameters. I am Calcutta. I am the gloom of the past that lingers along the lanes and I am the breeze that takes the stench away. I am the contradiction, dear Paris. Not you. You are way more significant than I am. But it is strangely through you that my significance becomes clearer to the ones who love me.
Thank you for the memories. There are a few repetitions we do long for.
What good will it do me to try to be someone else anymore? The truth is simple. I am in love with Paris. I miss being in Paris. I miss living with the weight of all my expectations. I wonder how a novel can turn a whole idea upside down through just a few pages! The idea in question is my escapism. Staying away from the woman I love, from the place I adore, from the truth of my life - seems like a good idea when the burden weighs me down. But in this lightness of living my life away from its soul, resides a heaviness too unknown.
I wonder what fruits the trees of practicality flower. In your quest of being practical you will forever be a little too blind to see the artistry of emotions. Each stroke of the brush on the white canvas is like a thousand whips on the delicate body and yet, as the image starts to form, the wounds disappear into subsequent layers of colours. You ask me to refrain, to think, to wait, to accept.
I dare you; to dream, to enact, to walk and to love. Yes, to love! Read it again, To love.
O you idiots! I was born to love. To not listen to your advice. To only do as my heart commands. And it is not strange really that I have not found a single partner on this joy-ride of life!
What can you ever trade with me now? I am the richest person I know! I possess in me the knowledge that the woman I love is the only witness to my reaction to the first glimpse of the magnanimous Eiffel tower! And there would be no one else. For like Kundera says, things that happen only once become nostalgia! I wouldn't have it any other way. The best moments of my life have been spent awake and alive.
What can you offer in exchange my dear practical, intelligent friend? My first footsteps along the Seine have been touched by Eternity! Who the hell can undo the reality now? Do not ever come to trade with me until you are ready with the required investment.
Well, you really wont understand. The wine has finally made me high! It has taken it a damn week to show its effect.
In this melancholy of a calm Dresden night, I long for Paris. I long for my true self. I am in love. O I am so much in love! How I wish my name would disappear from the waiting list! Why should a lover be constrained by absurd notions of practicality? It's futile to infuse sense into madness and probably madness into sense, too. Sense brings boundaries. How do you justify those for the unbound?
Do I want her to read this? Yes, I do. Do I want them to read it? I don't know. Do I want you to read it? I have only been talking to you.
But I don't care anymore. I do not care at this moment about the questions you repeat, for like Kundera puts it, repetitions are boring.
Damn, I am too confident tonight! Take my hand my love, if you please. Hearts which break were in a little too much hurry to form, you see. It's not your fault. It's not my fault.
I noted on the banks of Seine that I have vertigo. But now I am prodded to play the Kundera-game with the master himself!
My dear author, you say : "Anyone whose goal is something higher must expect some day to suffer vertigo."
What if I turn your idea upside down? What if anyone with vertigo lives with the rush of only going higher?
How will a practical you answer me? Gravity will always weigh you down!
Yes, lightness is unbearable but it is truly so only for the unbound. I have never felt the desire to be so real. For once, I truly don't care. You and your judgments are so insignificant (if that's what you are busy with at this moment).
May be I will miss out on Paris. But tell me Paris, what will you be without my love? You don't want to see yourself in my eyes when you are not bathed in love. You cannot. You my dear Paris, are so accustomed to love, aren't you? You are so habituated with all the punctuations of love that I know you will be hurt if even an ounce of this love is absent. No Paris, you are not Calcutta. You are way too sophisticated. Your chaos needs too many parameters. I am Calcutta. I am the gloom of the past that lingers along the lanes and I am the breeze that takes the stench away. I am the contradiction, dear Paris. Not you. You are way more significant than I am. But it is strangely through you that my significance becomes clearer to the ones who love me.
Thank you for the memories. There are a few repetitions we do long for.
