Don't worry! I am here to mend.

Hey, person not in love,

Well, I am callow to writing a story and quite callous at heart. I know that love drives my words crazy. Also, for me, love is too shallow and deep simultaneously. If you do not write love properly it can be misunderstood. You can unknowingly stand with an understatement or overstatement for it. As much as I have travelled people, love has taken leaps in my head from my bosom.

I remember once I sat on the stairs all drunk with one of my just friends and she was all crazy and ambiguous. For her, I was the craziest person she had ever met. She leaned on my lap and then we started with the awaited conversation. Yeah, we are from this generation where we think we can’t talk when we are sober. Sobriety kills reality. This means that we all need an unusual hit on our cerebral activities to act wholeheartedly and real. Well, what she babbled that night was the string of sorrow and inability to do things, lack of love and she sang all sad songs to me. she almost collapsed on the fact, that real was too surreal and then she felt free. Freedom from everything that clenched her heart tight and everything that suffocated her mind before reaching to this state. After that night I almost settled on a story of a lost girl who is wandering in the wonderful geography and is not even tasting the soil beneath. She is unaware of the petrichor, of the wind and everything that she is passing by and when she thinks she is liberated she is not even in senses to feel the liberation and when she wakes up from the unconscious state she is not even acquainted to the fact she was happy the other day.

But as soon as I grabbed a pen it lost its way. It didn’t know anything, no story. It felt like humans cannot be storied. Humans can only make a story or be one but one human cannot story another human until and unless one knows all the vulnerabilities, flaws and beautiful points and parts of the other. My pen wasn’t able to ink her rockmassed heart which was too boggy within the shell. I quit thereafter.

A few days later I met an old gentleman in the days when I really liked travelling. I liked travelling because I searched for something to calm my stormed up mind and loosened heart. I wanted to stitch my heart in all those days. That man though! his languid skin wore a gleam. He talked like his life has just started and his curiosity was like that of any kid. He wore a thousand ton smile on his old grown labium. He was a traveller too, he travelled his way through hard times. He was then working on a book. A book on humans. I almost wanted my life to be statued there beside him and just see his pen drool over the page the ecstasy of the human mind. He came up with a research work. He told me that all humans are kind of one but seem different. I took my way back to my senses. No! this isn’t right. Though human composition at the molecular level is basic and same but there is variation in the proportion of composition of every emotion. And these proportions play a major role in devising a classification of human beings. And I put up this view. That guy gave it a thought and he was so happy to have known a whole different viewpoint on something he’s working on and he seemed worried on the fact that how come a teen in this world analyzed this much. His fear travelled to my nerves.

What gladdened me there was the fact that unlike that girl he was just happy. He was able to make a crack in the dark room to fill it with light. He wasn’t stoned or drunk, what made him go wild was the process of life.

Yet another adventure hit my head when I sat with my mother. She is a deity of beliefs. In her accordance, you believe and you get it. You need to be disciplined and pray, offer prayers with eyes matched to respective gods and telling them how needful it is for you to have that thing you are praying for. Till date, I know that all my fevers and wounds were cured by prayers. I sat with her that day with my heart quite heavy. That day was among the days which I don’t want to encounter much but I settled to sit beside her back then on that date. I didn't regret though. The lady whom I weighed as someone less! She smelled like home. She smelled of salt and sweat. She started with her long gone stories. She told me that once she failed to visit a place she wanted to and the most beautiful part is that she still wishes to visit the same place and she prays for it. She has not lost even a single ray of hope of achieving what she wanted and the shine in the eyes of being there, remarkable! She narrated me how belief kept her heart less dense, how her imaginations ruled her into a world which was hers, only hers. I stared back at her and she was heavy, that heaviness delivered me the truth. The truth of burden that she kept beneath the tongue while she spoke and inside her lips when she smiled.

Then and there in the lap of my mother, I travelled back to my school, there was this girl. She was cranky. She loved the word gruesome. She was not just a girl. She was ‘the’ girl. She was beautiful with swift mind abilities. She was insane and she was looked forward by many in the group. But, God has disabled 100 percent perfection in all because imperfection is like wearing makeup. But back then people took imperfection as a disability. Her high pitch and aggression kept her different. But I had seen her play with her dog in the field. She used to pat his back with some set of emotions that nobody could ever understand. She chided at the dog but it hardly seemed to lessen its intensity of licking her feet and cheeks. She had a way with everything but sapiens need worded proof.

Then I jumped back to the workplace where breakups were playing a heinous role in everybody’s love. Love shifted from person to person. Love is nowhere. Trust me. Love had a thing back in time. Love earlier used to cuddle between braces and sleep amidst the sun and moon. It used to walk in the dusk and rest in dawns. It wasn’t a platter between just two people sharing the intimacy of organs. It shared wrath, belongingness, longing and sometimes love used to stay young in memories kept in the lowest corners of heart which used to pop out in front of the grandchildren. Also, love was in the taste and in the sleepless nights. Love never got tired. People used to get up to lovely mornings and then run in fields living the ambience of nature and they used to return to their beloved cups and tables and then leave for their most loved work. They used to work with intense love and then spend the dusk in lovable memories of life and worries. Then they used to return to their self-made loving home with people chit-chatting. This is how love resided in past times.

My mother loved to believe and the girl loved to stay herself. The man I met, loved his way of everything. We all have ways to surrender to love but love never asks for ways It asks for truth of deliverance. If love had power to undo and then redo itself, it could have kept the sanity of minds and hearts people need not take sedatives or hooch. People have forgotten their habit of keeping up with their wild in sobriety.

Well, I myself am finding ways in the stories. Sometimes when I sit ashore, I just imagine myself walking with a group of people who have managed to survive their time without booze and with an alarming rate of excitement and listening to the throb of their beats on the rhythm of their own adrenaline secreted during the love they have lived. Their love for their things made their things live instead of they being dead while living their work. See, my way of keeping love is imagination. What is yours? Tell me if you have a way out of your intoxicant and give me a hit with your wild love, my heart is ready to take wounds but please don’t desert yourself in the woods because somehow you will end up feeling that too much of yourself. But that's absolutely fine darling. I am right here, I will mend you.

Love and regards

-Person in process