Will You Stop Writing about Love? You mean about that ancient cliché?

The poster of Richard Phillips Feynman in American Series Young Sheldon Intrigued me. It recalled me of an unknown poster with strong words in the middle of my school library in a Wikipedia book hard to hold while standing. I used to sit on benches and most of the time on a comfortable floor while looking for rare books in the last section of the almirah during free periods, without being caught by the librarian to be sitting with books on my lap and floor around. Oh! How much I miss Canossa. The greenery behind the window secretly sharing my laughter, learnings, and curiosity always welcomed me along with the vintage almirahs in the room with bundles of books. Oh! The library is heaven in the universe. I love Almighty for making "knowledge and wisdom" the most important part of the human race. The first word of the Qur'an revealed on earth was Iqra meaning read, recite, ponder.  The further revelation beautifully revealed read in the name of your Lord, who created you.

A person succeeds when he reads, understands, and gains knowledge. As beloved villain Leonard Snart in DC comics quotes, “There are only four rules you need to remember: make the plan, execute the plan, expect the plan to go off the rails, throw away the plan.” Life is unexpected miracles and blamed decisions; our choices lead us ahead anyway. Without appropriate understanding and wisdom, the world will fall into doom, which it already is developing into a dark dungeon because the fallacy of technology and drawing off wisdom books have taken leave for a while, especially in the last few years. Seeing a child singing an absurd song as Husn Tera tauba tauba and not being able to name our galaxy is scary. I'm not here to confront a notion against the grotesque fist of technology; my point is to fit myself in the world saddled with a sickness called lack-e-wisdom; Cisco must be proud of naming this one! Maybe, or maybe not. My fictional friends are better at keeping me sane than the people I fall in love with. 

 

Oh! Love! What a brilliant feeling. ☕ 

The first cup of morning tea walking barefoot on the grass with fresh dew, reading the letter beloved sent from Cairo while smelling the perfume he sent as a souvenir of places, and working on Schrödinger's paradox, leaving favorite book untouched in the bag, doing the dishes a little at times so that the burden wouldn't overburden the househelp as she recently became grandmother, the jovial mood after wearing gifted red striped socks, and... The list is endless. End it beautifully in your sheets of imagination or ragged notebook, which one never throws away because of the familiar warmth it holds. 

 

The definitions of love have been infinitely fractioned amongst people since the beginning of the universe. For me, it is closeness to my rabb foremost; furthermore, if I recall when I confronted the definition of love and care, it was whileplucking roses, Bougainville, water lilies, and peonies while visiting the graveyard of the man I love (d). I lost him years ago; condolences were shared mercilessly by many. His death brought me closer to God. I know he sleeps at a better place. His graveyard is clean and is covered with soft mud—the terrain of low hills adorned with handplucked favoriteflowers. Recently, I have started reading a lot about his partially complete project on quantum electrodynamics theory, and something related from the similar field. Death brings remorse and unsettled thoughts of alter verse of many meetings. His brother recently gave me a page from his journal. The page smelled of his favourite ink pen, ink smudged with his fingerprint cleanly at the left and right corners of the delicate full page. It was almost like a jhilli of a photography film waiting to be dipped in developer solution. He described and addressed me as felicity Smoak, whom I didn't know till I read his unsent letter in his journal smughed with crosses, equations, and doodles. His letter shines brightly in my drawer along with my favourite unused stationery.

 

She will never read DC comics because she enjoys RJ comics—that's Raj Comics for short. Shaktimaan is her superhero, including Junior G. I love how she still owns Shaktiman's dress from when she was mere 7. She forgets numbers and names; no wonder she calls me Cedric...

 

The letter is beautiful yet smudged with tears, waters, and some wire-stricken scars. He might have written it in his laboratory. I wish to suppress the anger and neural emotions I used to have knowing him when he was alive. We really don't know people till we lose them. The regret of silence is worse than the regret of misunderstanding. 

 

His graveyard smelled of petrichor as it rained today. I babbled about the current book I'm reading, Such a Long Journey, which resembles my life after his death. From eating sundae to brushing teeth with meswak, all seem nothing but a job toiling hard work. Without purpose, life seems irrelevant. I'll be his Felicity Smoke with zero knowledge about hacking but a chirpy personality. 

His Felicity M.Smoak! 

 

Leeches feed on blood; human beings lurch on emotions and communication. Without the transmission of living dose, people die—physically and metaphorically. The death without being dead is much more painful in the realm of continuous prodding of a dagger heated at almost the melting temperature, eroding the skin and bones. We cannot hear the sound of thud or crash when people fall. The ancient Indian poet Kālidāsa wrote Abhijñānaśākuntalam, revealing the sections of love through Sanyog-Viyog rasa. In easy tone, the puzzle of union, separation, and reunion. The world is interconnected to each other, from green grass under our feet to the mighty dust in the Cartwheel Galaxy, 500 million light-years away. If this isn't the enrapturing reality we own, I don't know what else would enlighten mankind in any way!

Of course the Wisest Almighty who created the universe deserves all hamd (praise). Especially the emotions we are trapped in; despite how tangible time can get, emotions remain constant. 

 

E= emotions 

t = time 

M= moments 

m= memories

 

I propose in my journal, the realm of existence e

 

e = E. M/t*m

 

Just like loving the mole on his left cheek, not everything has to make sense. Maybe nothing makes sense when someone is in love. Like Majnun in the story, who loved deeply and laughed but got beaten up by his people. His consciousness was Laila: his Laila. Only his'. 

Nowadays, love starts with tinder and ends with semen between the lips and thighs, and the abandonment after getting bored or finding the right thick thigh to fill a river of lust to. The women not only like polygamatric idiotcratic adventure but also enjoy the intrusion from the unknown, bringing distress to the moral world, they leave stains of lipstick on a souteneur. The antiques at home were left untouched and screamed regularly. I remember a woman unconscious near balcony, while the man leeching on other woman's calves. 

 

Midnight is the time when Tahajjud prayers happen. Many believers talk to the Almighty, and many beg for forgiveness. Little do we all know the darkness we hold that we need forgiveness for. Love comes in many forms: to God; to people; to kids; to twizzlers; to a comic character; to a passion. But the worthy of all lies in the purest form of comfort in it—subtracting the agitation and worry of the world. If you have felt that love where your heart was at ease with contentment, Bravo! and congratulations! You have lived truly.

 

As I have lived and loved Canossa, where I stood in the library 12 years ago with a wikipedia encyclopaedia embedded by Nobel Laureate Richard Feynman,

I, a universe of atoms, an atom in the universe.

Fascinated then, flabbergasted now! I didn't know I had to wait 12 years in Azkaban—not in the J.K. Rowling analogy [villain getting out of prison-freedom] but in the French philosopher Michel Foucault analogy [similarities between schools and prisons].

At least something has to make sense! Definitely not the concept of a beautiful emotion called love. I disapprove of the definition of twentieth century love, which reflects capitalism, lust, and a list of unheard bruised emotions. 

Does my definition matter to the innumerable stares? 

Just like Faynman wrote a letter to the dead. 

Euphemism? No!  

The letter of Feynman to Beloved his wife mirrors the letter of my deceased beloved. None reached on time. 

 

[My darling wife, I do adore you.

 

I love my wife. My wife is dead.

 

Rich.

 

PS: Please excuse my not mailing this—but I don’t know your new address]. 

 

[ ̶Y̶o̶u̶r̶s̶

M̶u̶n̶̷

N̷o̷ ̷l̷o̷n̷g̷e̷r̷

M̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶y̶

I love it when you call my name].

 

That is how true love stories end? 

No!

Even death isn't the end, but is a portal into another realm of the afterlife. 

Is it the end? 

How would I know, mine?

It never began! 

Not everything has to make sense.

Laugh, cry, live, suffer, gratitude, patience.....!

Don't cover yourself on the dearth of pitiful mourning of this story. 

This is your story,

end it your way!