Finding the right one…
You know sometimes,it’s just hard to fathom the inner workings of that mechanism called,the heart. It fails to detect and filter any signs of realism on the feasibility of a relationship or potential of a relationship. The first beating indicates that yes,there is every bit of a chance that the girl or boy,we set our hearts on,is the one or can be the one. The second beating normally breathes in that air of optimism within, that despite flaws and weaknesses,acceptance is a prerequisite of sustainability. We tell ouselves,yes we can make it work. The third beating brings us to ground zero,when the normality of life creeps in and replaces spontaneity with every tinge of predictability. Suddenly,a movie outing becomes a passionless moment of popcorns and drinks,rather than the fleeting touches of hands. The fourth beating and doubt brings about a bit of restlessness. Episodes of mistrust and misjugements becomes a typical harbinger. We tell ourselves we are right. The situation is always wrong. The fifth beat rings the death knell. Surpressed by lack of freedom,we choke on the fabrics of memories and we seek reprieve in the arms and shoulders of vulturic friends or souls. The sixth beating and our foot is on the lookout for the exit door,awaiting the opportunistic moment to make a quick departure. Why stick around when you cannot stay,we tell ourselves. The last beat,and we smile in unison with the cyclic nature of life. We say,what begins must end. What started had to stop. We look forward,trying so hard to shout to the world that,”Yes,I did it. I ditched the bitch. I dumped the jerk. Let’s celebrate life. My life.”
Then…the mechanism starts its engine again. The heart has to work. It has to. Because that is its nature,and we begin with the first beat. Beat one. Beat two. Beat three. Beat Four. Beat five. Beat Six. Final beat. Symphony of the heart we say.
I’m so sick of love songs,I tell myself.
Does the symphony work that way?
That the bitch plasters herself all over the domains of the cyberworld,making a statement of happiness and joy in the arms and groins of men. The jerk muscles his way on the sanctuaries of privacies proclaiming newfound popularity in the hugs and kisses of women who sees the less in men. Rejoice! Being fake is an art. Donning the armour of superficial life is as crude as the art of applying eyeliner to the lashes of a social whore out one the first day of experience.