In Love

Being in love to me has always been like smoking weed in the bathroom. You don’t wanna expose your vulnerability, your addiction to the judging crowd but you still want the world to know you belong. That you got yours too. And you like the high when the summers grow cold.

It is like some emotional security; an insurance. When niggaz mention their shawties you also think of her for a split second and smile inside. And if you’re outside the studio bench kicking and listening to beats or some badly (over) done raps, you send a ‘Hi beb’ text just to stay in the zone. She could be in class or gossiping or in the shower touching herself. Or worst yet, in another nigger’s tattooed arms. But heck, you just wanna make a statement – just be in the feeling of owning and knowing.

Being in love to me has always been an “Uliza Kiatu” type of awkwardness. You could run into debts so she could have a chocolate-and-flower shop and a dream of things-will-get-better-baby type of comfort. How she breathes is special and you could write 100 poems about the strand of her hair alone. And you want her to give you head for that reason.

Being in love has always been childish to me. You cry because it is fun; it sweetly hurts. You nag about text messages and we-can’t-fuck-tonight-because-I’m-on-my-periods type of shit. You want to marry each other tomorrow as if time and ambitions are meaningless to two idiots cuddling each other after a fight. A fight with the one you love is worse than the Mahabharat because words are Akshauhinis and silence is a cold war. What’s a hug to a cold shoulder, though?

Being in love to me has always been torture because you are not yourself anymore. Somebody is in control. How you dress for a party and dance has nothing to do with you and your two left feet. How you breathe and die has nothing to do with fate. Love can kill and embarrass you. It can kill and resurrect you. It is death itself.

Being in love is being insecure to some insane degree. There will always be somebody better than you in your imagination. Somebody taller, sexier, richer…somebody you may never become. Could it be the reason why she came late for the date or didn’t come at all?

What’s his name?

Is his name–
‘It Was Raining’?
‘My Mom Was Sick’?
‘Sorry I Should Have Told You My Friends Were Coming For a Girls’ Night Out and We Got Soo Drunk I Forgot I Was To Come’?
Where does he live?
In the silence of her mind after an argument or in her phone passwords?

“Please don’t be mad at me,” she says and that kisses away all the fear and doubt and you’re now forever her beautiful slave.

Being in love to me is like a poem in the 21st Century. It has no rules though everybody claims there are dos and don’ts. Nobody knows what it means though everybody claims to understand it. It can mean anything but only you – the author – who knows how it feels like.

Being in love is being human but acting god-like. It’s like God masturbating when he saw Adam and Eve invoking their kundalini at the Tree of Life. In love, the Self sodomizes the Ego. The sky turns gay and the stars blink at your aura. You demand and control and judge yet there is free will.

You eventually destroy yourself. You find yourself in the debris of your broken heart. You melt back into Oneness and love is born again. Then you die having learnt life’s greatest lesson:

That being in love is being in Life; being Alive.

Being naïve.


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