A Poetry Reading Love After Love by Derek Walcott  {thanks to my commentator – The Sunrise Lover}

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.

– Lord Byron (Extracted this Gem from the post written by adorable creature – Rakesh. His review of “Into the Wild”)  

 

….I want to burst into tears…I want to burst open the windows and cry out loud to the skies. At times, grief that’s felt is so deep and personal that it can’t be explained through tears. Life, though engrossing, scares me sometimes, especially, through those “Disruptions”, which make me realise how unknowingly, yet willingly I have become so “helplessly dependent on someone”, who I’ve never met, and with who there would be no chance encounters. People say it’s quite exciting, it’s unique, it’s almost like a full-time commitment that’s understood and completely imbibed into the system. I could not but agree with this view. The thorny limitations run down my face, and it’s dreary. Life is shared in terms of “Daily Headlines” with the face-less stranger, honestly and religiously, and secretly desire for the same kind of transmission from his side, which usually does not happen, and I, the tough-petite creature, do not see it as a factor that causes a sensory dissonance. It does hurt me, sometimes, when I have to walk, determined and stern, through an exclusive cubicle that focuses my life in a hypercritical manner, at the end of which I find self entangled in layers of painful realisations. Life is devoid of music, fun and excitement, longing kisses on lips, on nape, long and hard bites on the cheeks. A constant movement has to be sustained without losing my heart to someone who I come across on splendid journeys, long walks have to be maintained with a gritty frown on my brow and when a rebellious mood strikes at me, I have to stare at the spiels of rationalisation & justifications that are pinned up against the wall. Its Tough to be in love with, to stay engaged with someone – a faceless stranger. Unusually long sequences of silence are celebrated on the window sill – a silent performance about inexplicable physical suffering. You may conclude that I am a loser, but I consider it as a great human effort to stay committed to something that lives, breathes on carefully structured strings of words, a firmly held belief about a possibility & an encounter in the breast, a gentle effort to wear a child-like curiosity and innocence about a world that appears so familiar, yet so far away and out of reach, a comforting interpretation of a hopeless world. I can feel the self-pity seeping between the lines, reaching out to the teary-rendition crawling across my cheeks. And I cannot forget the most essential behavioural possibility that the faceless stranger could terminate the conversations across the wall just as easily and effortlessly as he had started them. The fear is excruciatingly painful, its intensity changes every day, some days it is dull, some days it’s just a plain pain that throbs around in every corner. I may be ignorant in many ways, but I am not stupid. What keep me going in this daily game are the dialogues that I have with him and with myself. They are Pure, Genuine and Raw, devoid of any manipulative or deceptive acts.

 

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