Life, love and all that jazz

 Always wished my man would give me flowers. Never received any from the ones I seriously dated—at least none that I can recall. And then, finally, I did. In Thiruvannamalai, a string of jasmine garland, to be pinned onto my hair… at 4:30 AM on the last Sunday of October 2024, while awaiting the darshan of Arunachaleshwar. Gifted to me by my fiancé—the one I met 7 years ago, but with whom love (and the courage to admit it) blossomed only recently. It wasn’t just flowers; it was a long-awaited symbol of love, timing, and destiny. The Universe had been preparing me for this moment all along. ✨

 And that's why I would write all the sordid things I would ever feel and go through.  And then one day, maybe when I am gone, whether temporarily or permanently, you would re-read our WhatsApp chats (if not deleted, as you prefer a clean slate always) and find the link back to this blog. And to me..

 “I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art. The artist is the only one who knows the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements. It is a materialization, an incarnation of his inner world. Then he hopes to attract others into it, he hopes to impose this particular vision and share it with others. When the second stage is not reached, the brave artist continues nevertheless. The few moments of communion with the world are worth the pain, for it is a world for others, an inheritance for others, a gift to others, in the end. When you make a world tolerable for yourself, you make a world tolerable for others.” –Anaïs Nin

 There is a sadness in realizing that the person you have become is not the person you once wanted to be. It is the sadness of looking back on your life and seeing all the ways you have compromised, all the dreams you have let go, all the parts of yourself you have lost along the way. And in that sadness, there is a sense of mourning, not just for the life you could have had, but for the person you could have been." — T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufroc

 Once, I believed we were a constellation—rare, luminous, defying norms, a once-in-a-lifetime wonder. But now, I see we are merely city lights, flickering in the same tired patterns, dimmed by the smog of expectations, entanglements, and the echoes of others' voices. The extraordinary was only the ordinary in disguise—until the clock struck twelve. Or am I just being cynical? Is it too soon to let go of the fairytale?

 “No one will ever know   that we lived,   that we touched the streets with our feet  that we danced joyfully,   No one will ever know that we gazed at the sea   from the train windows,   that we breathed   the air that settles   on the café chairs,   No one will ever know that we stood   on the terrace of life   until the others arrived.” –Nino Pedretti, "Nobody Will Know"