June 17, 2002

Of arguments and kisses

The end of a relationship is the negative copy of its beginning. there is the same feeling of unreality as when you have just fallen in love, the same loss of appetite and sleep. The strange numbness, like the shock after an accident, is exactly the same. A relationship is a holiday from loneliness, beginning and ending in the same airport. The most awful thing about the end is that it clearly reminds you of the beginning, of the joy with which you set off, everything is the same, yet everything has been inverted by grief. -- Claude Wooldridge in Louis Buss's Luxury of Exile.

I guess one can say the same about life too. Every thing you do in it are little relationships. You forge relationships with things, ambitions, fears and so on. But in the end you outlive all of them and look back at them with the negative of what you started out with.

There is an essential emptiness that forms the scenery. Everything else that comes in between are just props that decorate the landscape for a short while only to be replaced in the next scene or the scene after that.

And one eventual day you run out of props. I guess that is what is called as death. Well not the physical one, but the mental one. So what remains in this strange circus called life?

I guess it is just the fond remembrance of the first kiss, the pride that you felt in the vain argument that you won, the day you bought something with your first salary when you thought the whole world was yours for the taking and the sweet smile from a beautiful stranger in a crowd whom you never met again.

Life is full of possibilities -- mostly stupid ones. But that is what makes it tick. Because in the end everything must go and the more you hang on to something, the more forcefully it is taken away from you.

In the end you know the odds of the stranger having actually smiled at you are really low and next to zero if you consider the possibility of meeting and getting to know him/her again.

The sweetness of the first kiss is soon replaced by the embarrassing clumsiness that it was done with.

Vanity remains as the sole residue of the victorious line of argument.

Even as the world's richest man with the fattest pay cheque you still cannot lay your finger on THAT thing which you cannot yet conquer.

But the remembrances, like disintegrating dry old rose petals hidden an old diary, haunts you, brings a smile on your lips when you look at them accompanied by an invisible teardrop that rolls softly down your cheek. That is the only thing we earn for ourselves, the only thing that is truly ours. No matter how vain or how stupid it is, it still is mine and that makes it the most valuable thing I have in my life for me.

I am rambling, I must be low on sleep, let me find that diary again and look for that invisible hand.

Farewell for now.