I believe

I don't believe in a one true love. Or in love at first sight. Or in fairy tales, much less happy endings. I don't believe in Santa Claus. I think makeup sex is overrated and that the question of whether or not to kiss on the first date suffers from overanalysis.

I believe that the first date is a chance to get to know the other person and to have fun--- not a scheme to delude another into believing you're someone you're not, nor the occasion to be tormented by The Rules.

I believe that sex is so much more gratifying when taken for what it is, not as a tool to facilitate forgiveness, to promote memory loss or to release pent up anger.

I believe that though the stories about Santa Claus may be amusing for children, it is a lie, and both an injustice and a serious display of disrespect to their intellect.

I believe that we have a say in how things end, and that the reason why endings aren't happy is because we look for it in all the wrong places, and we hinge our happiness on prophesied endings instead of on the here and now, or on how competently a person fulfills our fabricated criteria for love or happiness.

I believe that love at first sight is a load of crap. You may like a person instantly, but love develops and deepens only after you've seen his many flaws, and you feel ever more drawn to him.

I believe that there is enough love to go around, that every person is worthy of it, and that the love you have for your partner is no more true than what you feel for that friend you met only a couple of months ago.

I believe in a one true god, one who is beyond obsessing over the fact that his name should be spelled with a capital letter. A god who is honest and forgiving and kind. A god who likes to laugh. A god who is only as mysterious as the stranger you meet on the street, whom you can get to know and love, should you choose to. I believe in a god who is pure love, so full of it that he spills out unto every person, every creature, every wondrous sight, every peaceful sleep, every tender touch, every haunting melody, every smile, every waking moment.

And it takes my breath away.

Photographs untaken

(photograph by Amogh Pant)

That time when I went to see her. I wasn't sure if she needed a listening ear, a hand to hold, a bit of counsel, or someone at whom she can lash out all her repressed anger. I wasn't even sure how she was feeling. I found her, usually a canvas of vibrant life, suddenly devoid of emotion. Mouth set in grim determination, eyes dry and unseeing. A face that betrayed as much pain as purpose.

...

That summer, sharing a narrow bed with him. We had been talking for hours. For days. With only sleep and 4 hours of class between us as reprieve. And even then, sleep was elusive and insignificant. When it did come, his breath on my shoulder was such comfort. The calm on his face, his posture in contented slumber. A reminder of happy days etched in the past.

...

Those evenings in my youth, way past midnight but before light broke. Side by side, he and I. In silence, with a crossword puzzle on the table in front of us. He would look at me, eyes filled with faith, gratitude and unspoken love. He would smile, and the smile was tender.

...

That day, when he came to me to say he was getting married. To explain why he was leaving me during such turbulent times. His words fell soundlessly, but his face echoed my sadness.

...

On the road, to God knows where. The streets were empty; the humming of the car the only sound I could hear. And my heartbeat. His hands--- calloused and hard--- gripping the steering wheel with complete confidence. Or was it the steering wheel that was chastened under his touch? I fell in love with those hands.

Speak, that I may see you

Like an exultant roar from the pages of a book, or a soothing balm from an online voice. Seen and felt rather than heard, but every bit as heartening.

Like the babbling of strangers, or noisy chatter from the TV. Audible yet detached. Immaterial, yet the comfort is no less real.

Conveyed through action, just as profound. A subtle nod of the head as if to say you are familiar and worthy of acknowledgment. A warm embrace in moments of self-doubt, saying you are a friend and no one, at this singular instant, is worth more.

I do not underestimate the power of words. On the contrary, I revel in it. In a rare but welcome state of clarity and virtue, I wield it. For the most part, however, I am a mere spectator. At best, a dilettante.

In the silence--- of a blank page, of solitude, of loneliness--- I crave it.

Speak to me.

It's vanity, is all

It is my hope to be able to look fixedly at my reflection in the mirror--- with conviction, confidence and acceptance. To look myself in the eye everyday and say, "You're okay."

I've always behaved within certain boundaries, restricting my actions, feelings and thoughts to what is acceptable--- as a child, a friend, a sister, a mother, a wife, a woman. I've spent years trying to measure up, fit in and get along.

It's almost impossible to say "I'm okay" when people who matter to me say, "You're not." Not smart enough, not kind enough, not loving enough, not interesting enough, not funny enough, not thin enough, not feminine enough, not beautiful enough, not sensitive enough, not supportive enough, not happy enough, not grateful enough...

Not enough. I'm incomplete and lacking.

Though I am imperfect, I am also unfinished.

I've decided I want to think and feel as I please, and I should not have to suffer in guilt for it. I want to be able to experience friendships with other people, as me; not as someone's child, wife or mother.

I am all that. But that is not all I am.

Note Worthy

She shudders. The air is weighted with electricity, wild sparks flying off her fingertips. It's hard to breathe, and she pants. She feels like she's being choked, taking pleasure at that precise moment when air is denied as she craves it most. Squirming, gasping, thrashing--- like pain:wickedly delicious.

She sighs. The light is soft, and the hours, mild. The air has ebbed to a static current, a provocative buzz that fills her with need. Without urgency but no less demanding.

She begs, she pleads.
She hungers, she yearns.

And she writes.