Poets and writers are mad creatures. Love us and we will write a hundred poems about you. Hurt us and we will turn it into a rage and write a thousand. Show us how evil the world is and we will write endlessly on it, making everyone else believe in what we saw too. Leave us and we will feed off every memory with you.
You will forever live in sentences and words we write, even if you couldn’t live forever with us. We will pick your favorite things and mention them all, shamelessly. Details about you that even you forgot; things others wouldn’t even have cared to remember.
There is something about being completely detached from people and experiences and still being able to live it through words. A gift that is unknowingly given to us.
We treasure these poems more than you. I thought you should know that.
It was a typical weekday of September, with the sky at its bluest and the sun at its brightest.
Alice’s walk to the church blessed her with several beautiful sights.
(Someone said it right, “Safar khoobsurat hai manzil se bhi” – The journey is more beautiful than the destination.)
(What you just experienced was the death of the essence of that quote that got glorified in the translation.)
Simple sights like flowers falling from a gulmohar tree, marking the most dramatic exit,
the half a dozen kittens struggling to pin down their mother’s playful tail,
the homeless child singing a folklore while assorting her collectibles on the sidewalk.
“Is she really homeless though? Does home necessarily have to be a four-walled structure?”, thought Alice.
The church had its usual business going- people coming in and relieving themselves of their emotional and karmic burdens.
“It’s so difficult to be a God, with people coming in and asking for things from you or blaming you for the misery in their lives,” thought Alice.
Just as things were about to get existential, Alice caught the sight of a woman. It looked like she was in her 50’s. She was bowing in front of “God”, praying.
There was nothing unusual about what she was doing. But something did seem out of the normal. Maybe it was the woman herself, or maybe it was Alice’s perception of the woman.
She was slender, radiant and looked content. Why was she here then? Maybe she belongs to a different breed of people who come to God to simply thank Them for everything.
She had long hair, not that long though; the length suited her height and physique.
For a moment there Alice forgot about where she was.
That woman’s aura seemed more pure and captivating than the supposed divine entity above.
Alice allowed herself to slip into that moment where everything was bright, where everyday was a calm sunny day in September.
Alice saw and thought about what it would be like to kiss the woman.
(Didn’t see that coming right? Neither did Alice.)
In a part of Alice’s universe, they were already kissing. It felt good (and safe).
Like a sudden fall, something in Alice snapped.
“What are you doing? You can’t be thinking about these things here,” said Alice’s conscience.
“Ok, Jesus aside, didn’t all the other Gods procreate? Didn’t they indulge in what I was thinking about? I am born human with an innate sexual drive. It is nothing but natural, right?” reasoned Alice.
There was a brief moment of silence till the church bells rang.
I just wanted to let you know I don’t love you anymore. I don’t love you anymore. I don’t love you anymore.
I have grown out of you like I grew out of my favourite dress when I was 13. I didn’t want to, but I did. I think when you stop loving, you either stop loving them gradually or finally. Finally you stop loving someone who obviously wasn’t right for you. Gradually you stop loving someone who could have been right for you. I think I gradually stopped loving you, almost as if I wasn’t meant to. Now that I think about it, what does “right for me” mean anyway? Who is right for me? Someone who’d have to trim their square sides off to fit in my circle? No, you have forced me to believe that that is me. But I know I’m not like that. The thing I like the most about people is how different they are. Even when I’m writing this your words keep ringing in my head like accusations. Accusations about who I claim to be but am not. Maybe this is why I stopped loving you. Maybe the thing I hate the most about not loving you is having to admit it.
That is why let me tell you today- I don’t love you. I don’t love you. I don’t love you.