All we need is a little love

We can walk through all our days frivolous, half-loving, stopping-by-the-doors-and-never-staying. But what do you do in these dark, dismal, funereal times?

Do you continue with a charade of happiness, drowning yourself in a mix of happy-movies, happy-songs, happy-times?

Do you put up a façade of strength and break down inside? Why am I expected to cope – does coping mean shutting out death and narrowing down to MM assignments and QT tests? Am I expected to be insensitive to this?

Why can’t we drown in collective grief? We all feel the oppression, the weighing down – it’s right there. And yet we escape – malls, diners, movies – does it help?

Why can’t we confront and be weak, isn’t it but human – our last heartfelt tribute to him who’s left to never return. Yet it’s so uncomfortable to broach.

Why can’t we focus on the passing away. Why get entangled in the how’s and why’s and we-don’t-understand’s? What is a death anyway – another statistic of who-what-how-why and the blame games about irresponsibility? Does it make death less heart rending?

Do you think of all the times you invited death and she refused? To be struck by her cold, unforgiving visage when she turns up uninvited? When you beg and plead and she refuses to leave? And then takes you along with her.

Why can’t someone just tell me it’s alright to think. To cry. To acknowledge.

Perhaps I am just sick and delirious and raving mad.

Perhaps. Immune and vulnerable. Not the usual stoic, impenetrable fortress. That you think I am. But then am I normal or are you? I, who cannot get back to my books. And you, who remain unaffected and think of it as an academic holiday. Perhaps I envy you. For your insensitivity and immunity.

And this is when I want to go back to childhood. When sickness was not so much about medicines. It was about a loving caress. A loving voice that reassured you that all will be well. Strong arms that enveloped you and told you it’ll be fine. The warm, intrusive curious eyes of a sibling that never left you alone. About the miles travelled to heal you with warmth.

Is it too much to ask for it all now? A little bit of love in harsh times? As I swing between a need for solitude and companionship, to find a sense of belonging in mutual grief? For understanding and warmth. Peace with silence, and hope with words.

And it’s in times like this that we realise. There’s nothing to replace human contact. All we need is a little love, and we’ll be fine. This should be my catharsis. I wish you yours, soon.

Note : After reading this, please don't try and tell me I need to talk to people rather than 'vent' it on a blog. As if I don't talk to people or something.

If that is all you can say, you are the nth person to say so and lose the whole point. I can only say that you don't understand 'why' people write. It is not simply a vent or a rant. What writing really is, is not for me to tell, but for you to feel and find out. And if it feels like a non-cathartic chore to you, DONT GENERALISE. It's my poison. Period. No discussions. No sermons.