My random musings on love

Recently, someone close to my heart commented that while I have written about a whole plethora of topics in my blogs - ranging from the suffocatingly-dull to the unbelievably insane - the one topic that I have never written about is l'amour - love. Now, this could be easily misconstrued to mean that I am not a very romantic person at heart - and I will vehemently deny that I am not! It is just that being both romantic and conservative at the same time, it does not come naturally to me to openly talk - or, in this case, write - about love.

So, for today, I shall endeavour to pen my musings about what love means to me. And, in not keeping with my usual propensity for coherent writings, I shall keep this musings as random and spontaneous as I can, in order to capture the spirit of my heart.

* * * * * * * * * *

I am standing in a crowd. The air is thick. The omnipresent chatter surrounding me is deafening. I look around, trying to turn my eyes away from the sea of anonymous faces that drown me. And then, from a distance, I see her. I do not remember when or where I have seen her before. But she seems even more beautiful now than I recall. She looks at me, a faint smile on her lips. She, too, appears to know me, but from where or when, she cannot seem to recall. We stand far apart, separated by the crowd. But as my gaze remains transfixed at her, the crowd seems to fade away, and there seem to be just two of us in a wide open space. My heart stops for seven pulses. Time stands still.

* * * * * * * * * *

The years pass. I never forgot her face. Her bewitching eyes. Her captivating smile. I receive word on her whereabouts. The memories come flooding back. I seek her out. The journey is long, the trials are many. But I find her. I look into her eyes. She looks momentarily, then her eyes look away. She does not remember me. But it does not matter. For I have found her again. That alone is enough.

* * * * * * * * * *

Perhaps, in time, she will remember me. And accept me for who I am. Can the beautiful gypsy La Esmeralda ever love the hunchback Quasimodo, and choose him over the gallant and dashing Phoebus? For even in her death, Quasimodo came to die alongside her, his deformed arms embracing her in death eternal. Will she ever see and know how much she meant to him?

* * * * * * * * * *

I sit beside the one I love. I reach for her hand. There is a mild hesitation from her. But it is mild. And only momentary. It is just shyness. She eventually relents. I feel the warmth of the palm of her hand. Our fingers intertwine. They move subtly, communicating silently our feelings. No words are spoken; none need to be spoken.

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