The touch of Parvati
I need to write about love. Not about sex or lust. I am adamant about sticking to Indian mythology tonight. The sweet rains of summer has graced us and the cold breeze simply refuses to retreat.
Romance is the thing of the hour. Even the lust lackluster right now. Kamadeva and Rati is out of question. Those are materialistic deities I anyway hate. No, its not hate in fact. I just don’t like them. But there are times when I like ‘em , errr…
Coming to the point. Love is not always about the physical aspects of attraction. Its not even about getting involved. They have developed this concept of Quatum Entanglement to explain the dynamics particle interaction in the microscopic world.
I have no intention of elaborating about it. But the word entanglement is resonating in my mind - but who or what exactly is getting entangled here?
Long term relationships are in fact an anomaly. The most intense and sweet romantic encouters of life are often gone in a jiffy.
Colourful memories seldom consume anything more than one sixtieth of an hour. I am not trying to go platonic over here, but rather trying to talk about the rustic charm of love that manoeuvre over the hidden realms of life.
Not exactly love it is.
Attraction is not always mutual. Almost never you know exactly to what you are getting attracted to. The colour? Hair? Shiny Mascara? Six packs? Jamaican Boxers? The smell? Thick rim spectacle? Prowess in Star Wars extended Universe? The Outlandish grace?
You never know.
And you are not expected to. Like a tidal wave, it arrives, sweeps you off your feet and recedes. The euphoria stays for a while, you sing to the unknown, dance for the pagan deity in your room, write shit or just lie down and admire the beautiful ceiling.
Being entangled make us look weak. Letting some foreign elements take control of your being. But so is cannabinol or absinthe. You take the pleasure of introducing it to your meatbag.
Perhaps there is no point in trying to get that feeling into a sheet of paper. You tasted it once, tried to make sense of it and lost it somewhere inside your ribcage.
There is no point to go searching for it. That etching behind your sternum. The feeling that forces you to turn your toungue upside down. Let it persist, there lies the solace.
We are one screwed up species, confess the itch and let it go. Love just happens, so does sh*t.