Hullabalove

The wheels of a car, when it speeds eighty kilometres per hour, the whirring of the fan at setting five, the swirl of the washing machine in rapid circles, the perfectly sharpened pencil and the doll’s skirt imagined out of the skimmed flakes, the mechanic tick-tock of the wall clock, a pattern too pure to remain, a paper finely made, an ink meant to linger, a pen dearly treasured, a letter never written – that is you – everything. Everything, and nothing.

You are a hullabaloo, you are love, that makes you hullabalove, my muchykin hullabalove. It makes absolutely no sense, I know, and that is precisely why it makes sense -- it makes sense to me, to our entity. It makes us, us. I am going overboard with my emotions which is against my grain, and hence the drain in language. Let me try it my way -- simple and straight. Love is overrated. It holds life together, but so does the backbone, or the air around. 

If you can have my love understood in grocery lists and I let your choice of fragrance smother the floors with, if you can greatly tolerate my tantrums of dusting and distributing, and I your calculative decisions which clash with my pricey lilies in the living room and still think they are priceless -- then we are speaking love, living it. Washing dishes when the maid isn't around and speaking insurances over a dinner out -- medical, life -- and loans -- car, home, personal. Hullabalove, it is so much more about the beginning of a life after the honeymoon period; about seeing each other in dirty, casual clothes; in outgrowing the love into a habit. A habit called You. That is why I never write letters to you, nor want one. Letters limit. Living makes it infinite.

Often when I begin painting, the palette interests me more than the canvas. The blue mingling with the red and creating a vibrant chronicle of violet. And then you return to find me, the blank canvas for company, as you had left me; if only you could read the paintings that I created in the palette of my mind. Darling, how can I show you what they were -- a bouquet of promises -- till the bell rang and the iron-man came in with his delivery. I sorted it out, and went back to the bouquet, it had already begun to disintegrate and I was racing fiercely to bring back the harmony, and had almost achieved it, if not for the group of boys asking for a donation towards some cause which I do not even remember. Love, you came in and told me I just wasted another day. How could I show you I did not, so I kept quiet. You loved the dinner though. And the intense love-making. 

I am enjoying the drink now. More than the dinner and the intense lovemaking. I am intoxicated but my clarity is remarkable. Like the painting. You know, you weren't a part of it. It disturbed me, but I was at peace. It is not necessary to see everything I do, I see; but honey, you weren't a part of that painting. It had flowers, and skies, and fountains and thundershowers and melting mountains. It comprised little moments of quietude. And you were. Along, but not with. Come to think of it, I liked it, quite. That is love.

Unfortunately none of the above happens. You scream, I do not tolerate. You major, I minor. You earn a salary to run 'family', while I earn for 'luxury' -- or that is what you say. How could we be? I was meant to be like this, quietly enjoying my drink with a love warm enough to fill my heart even when not around.

I will breathe and in some days, get back to living, wishfully towards a life of writing and earning, and seeing paintings in the palette. You will go your way. I will sometimes swim in a lake, think of you, and the hullabaloo you would have created in pursuit of perfection. No, I rather swim alone with the starry skies for company. In the palette. That would be chrome blue mixed with a hint of veridian green, for me to swim. My drink can come to a timed conclusion, to a decision. Call me selfish, yes I am. I will call you nothing, or would you like 'victim'? I can easily say it aloud. Or under my breath, just enough for you to hear. So that you know you aren't.                                                    --  Utsarinee's diary entry, dated February 14, 2005.

I always had it in me, didn't I? To write my heart out? So what if the world is busy availing discounts to celebrate love; you failed, I failed, love failed. Victory went to living. Utsarinee, 14 Feb' 16. :)