{Of all lies, art is the least untrue - Flaubert}

Wednesday, May 25, 2005


It was summer. Everything good and bad is out, people sense you, you sense them, there are contacts, senses are at all time best, mind behave erratic, heat gets us out of us like sweat, people can 'see' us, smell us, almost taste us, all human senses are put to good use. They celebrate their existence. He was just another human being, a homosapiens evolved to feel like this yet trained not to show it, but good summer is a great leveler, its brings out the best in you. With all his senses hyperactive, in this frenzy of sweet chaos, he happily submitted to fantasize heat to warmth, touches to closeness, eye contacts to longings. Climate acts as catalyst in love reactions.

He saw in her eyes and almost calculated the state of her heart. He tried to be static and rational, but golden rays of sun donot spare anyone. She looked like a goddess, a graceful golden goddess, those big eyes longing for him, its road to moonlit alleys. The spell is all over. Nature has done its homework, and it has ages of relevant experience too. What he can do is happily fall for the trap, smile at his stupidity, wonder at her gazes, see everything tainted red and green.

There are doubts, big self-doubts, he is not afraid of the moment, but of moments to come. He almost thought years ahead, months passed by, but the moment stayed. He thought of all the mushy things he had come across, and thought of the feeling which his friends talked about with bright eyes but he never felt, he sensed the smell of uplifting happiness, he was happy because he didn't cared for anything, the moment he was trapped was too sweet to leave for anything but her.

His face glowed red as a new born child and he searched for love inside, its a oscillating feeling of strength and loss, and the state of mind had never been better, it stopped working, something inside his chest is thumping heavily to take control of him and he of her and she of herself, all messed up so beautifully in love, all erratic in perfect sense, all so brilliantly sparky and all too stupidly senseless. Probably, he was expecting all this, but in a very different way. Imagination is seldom perfect, like reality. Senses numbed and intensified themselves as the moments desired, all is so systematic, probably God took care of the affairs.

No comments: