It has been long since I longed for you
And life seemed full of lonely sighs
Quite a while has it been since I wept for you
(Like I did for all subsequent goodbyes)
Without you, I had thought, I would not live
Thereafter I knew I would survive
Though with each evanescent love
Somewhere a part of me died
Yes.The parts die every minute and resurrect every second.Funny...
A continuous process if you ask me.
It gets slightly difficult and majorly perplexing to identify the beginnings and the ends of existence, a few pieces of which are always missing.Damn!
it always intrigued me...the way everything is discrete and detached but together they compose something so solid and continuous as what we casually refer to as life.
thanx aurosikha. good to know i have written something to which others can relate to. (which shows my life is not all that weird :P )
after a long long time...i saw ur blog, after 8th april
sorry to say, i was shocked, & again shocked to see the comments.
goodbye...i can't say to you
a part myself, a loving part, who aroused me to stand up taught me how to hold knife & fork...each moment...sometime it is pleasure to me, i am talking about my feelings only...i love the died days, i still love the moments passed by...every time when i alone, i relish...i love
Loved this one!
Thanks M. I recognized you the moment I saw those 'doodles' :)
going thru the post has been a going down memory lane for me..the pain that brings out the essence of love at times...its heart wrenching, yet splendid!
Thank you Shubhendu.
For love doesn't mean looking for new meanings and moving on when done.
For love is not an appetite.
Its forms may change and sometimes some entities too.
But love in itself is the air we breathe...
Known, around, needed for survival
The beloved may leave, but love, within, stays.
Then tell me poet, how can voids arise out of a sense of completion?
Well, I disagree with much that you say. For instance, love is indeed an appetite. It is a semantic problem actually: the English word 'love' keeps overflowing denotative boundaries, and is utterly vague. Presuming the 'voids' you refer to are the 'parts that die', each time and every time it happens with the loss of a love object. I suppose psychology would attribute it to secondary narcissism.
I thought LOVE is like morbilli...but I was wrong...
And in all those deaths, I lived a new life. In all those voids, I found a space sans that line of control, which our hearts willingly crossed on a star lit night.
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