It feels this way.
Someone today asked me why I have been acting all mushy and soppy and starry-eyed lately (wondering how they noticed). And then one of my friends told me that being in love is a wonderful experience. So I decided to combine the two because the reason for me being mushy and soppy and starry-eyed is the same as what my pal said -- being in love.
It may sound extremely corny and something like a teenage fantasy. But then, having floated perilously close to depression and after enduring a bloody miserable year (the latter half of 2010 and some months of 2011), I can strongly agree that love does, indeed, make a difference. It isn't a Karan Johar movie set in Manhattan, with red roses blooming everywhere, violins in the background, fancy dresses and expensive cars and really posh places for a date. This is real life. Love here means having someone who cares for you, someone who will hold your hand when you are barfing into the toilet seat. Someone who will make the effort of calling you early morning to find out how your stomach ache has been from the previous night. It would mean someone holding your hand and stroking your back after you were freaked out from feeling tremors and an earthquake while you were watching television at night, thinking life is perfect. Love would mean having someone's shoulder to cry on while you hurriedly called up your parents and told them about the tremors, informing them that you are all right, telling them how much you love them. Love would mean telling someone your deepest fears and peeves -- how you were terrified of earthquakes and did not want to die alone in your apartment. The list can go on and on and yes, I am capable of writing pages.
All I'm trying to say is that every love story is different. Especially different from what is depicted in novels and movies. But some elements do remain the same. You sleep happier and wake up with a smile on your face. If something even close to
a disaster happens, you know you can call up anytime and sob and weep and expect to be consoled. You can joke with each other, call one another names, pull noses and typically behave like kids. You can fight over a piece of chocolate and then have your hair pulled (school-ground behaviour, I know). But at the end of the day, you are happy. And contented. And satisfied to have someone who loves you. It really is an awesome feeling to be loved. Allow me to use an insanely cliched scenario here. It feels like you have been wrapped in a giant, sweetened marshmallow. And when you peer out of it, everything in the world appears candied. And pure. And lovely. And precious, You are thankful for what you have. You count your blessings. You thank your stars that there is someone whose existence gives you a reason to be cheerful. That someone can get under your skin and make you so indescribably happy. That someone can see through your false exterior and that facade and reach out to the scared, vulnerable, little girl you actually are. That someone can love you with your little quirks and foibles and all the faults.
It feels glorious. Amen. :)
It may sound extremely corny and something like a teenage fantasy. But then, having floated perilously close to depression and after enduring a bloody miserable year (the latter half of 2010 and some months of 2011), I can strongly agree that love does, indeed, make a difference. It isn't a Karan Johar movie set in Manhattan, with red roses blooming everywhere, violins in the background, fancy dresses and expensive cars and really posh places for a date. This is real life. Love here means having someone who cares for you, someone who will hold your hand when you are barfing into the toilet seat. Someone who will make the effort of calling you early morning to find out how your stomach ache has been from the previous night. It would mean someone holding your hand and stroking your back after you were freaked out from feeling tremors and an earthquake while you were watching television at night, thinking life is perfect. Love would mean having someone's shoulder to cry on while you hurriedly called up your parents and told them about the tremors, informing them that you are all right, telling them how much you love them. Love would mean telling someone your deepest fears and peeves -- how you were terrified of earthquakes and did not want to die alone in your apartment. The list can go on and on and yes, I am capable of writing pages.
All I'm trying to say is that every love story is different. Especially different from what is depicted in novels and movies. But some elements do remain the same. You sleep happier and wake up with a smile on your face. If something even close to
a disaster happens, you know you can call up anytime and sob and weep and expect to be consoled. You can joke with each other, call one another names, pull noses and typically behave like kids. You can fight over a piece of chocolate and then have your hair pulled (school-ground behaviour, I know). But at the end of the day, you are happy. And contented. And satisfied to have someone who loves you. It really is an awesome feeling to be loved. Allow me to use an insanely cliched scenario here. It feels like you have been wrapped in a giant, sweetened marshmallow. And when you peer out of it, everything in the world appears candied. And pure. And lovely. And precious, You are thankful for what you have. You count your blessings. You thank your stars that there is someone whose existence gives you a reason to be cheerful. That someone can get under your skin and make you so indescribably happy. That someone can see through your false exterior and that facade and reach out to the scared, vulnerable, little girl you actually are. That someone can love you with your little quirks and foibles and all the faults.
It feels glorious. Amen. :)
Lovely. Very aptly described. It does feel this way. :) :)
ReplyDeleteIt does no? :)
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