La Vie de Chrysante

Warm sum­mer nights in the back­seats of cars—top left corner, under an oak tree—bodies kept close together. Arms wrap around one another, find­ing safety in a tight embrace that seals us together—our lips meet. Fin­gers run­ning softly through her hair, gently caress­ing the fine strands—the kiss con­tin­ues. Tor­sos pressed firmly against one another, arms tight­en­ing to form a vise-like grip—we are insep­ar­able. Break away, break away, break away, but do not look away, away, lost once more in the depths of her shin­ing eyes—smiles slip slowly, smoothly. We are young, as is the night. We are care­free, as is the soft breeze. We are blissful.

From meas­ured infatu­ation to uncon­di­tional love, it was a journey—it still is a jour­ney, a jour­ney that either stops pre­ma­turely or con­tin­ues towards an unseen end—the former two being simple stops on that path. It is a beau­ti­ful feel­ing, to know that you are cared for and wanted—in a pos­it­ive manner—by some­body. It is an even more beau­ti­ful feel­ing to care for someone and to want someone. That feel­ing, it is that feel­ing which helps you so very much in the midst of darker times, when you feel alone, because even then, you know that there’s someone there wait­ing for you, caring for you, hop­ing for you, think­ing of you—a reason to con­tinue try­ing, work­ing, hop­ing, a reason to not give up, a reason to per­severe. She helps me up when I stumble, some­times mul­tiple times, fall­ing, fall­ing, falling—falling into a spiral of self-destructiveness. We are each oth­ers’ greatest sup­port, each oth­ers’ anchors in the storms of life.

Strolling through dusty trails, hand in hand, the set­ting sun stretches its amber embrace over the firm­a­ment, reach­ing from corner to corner, touch­ing our very souls. A view—we can see a val­ley, a wide green val­ley, a wide green val­ley punc­tu­ated by the occa­sional house—we are sur­roun­ded by wild­flowers, fra­gile, mys­tical, utterly unfazed by man’s advances on their realms; they are a thing of beauty, but they do not rival her beauty. She is far more beau­ti­ful than the moon and the stars that hide over­head, wait­ing for the sun to release it’s grip on the sky above, wait­ing to peek out in pure jeal­ousy at the beauty in my arms—another kiss—every single time, we feel but­ter­flies float­ing, mean­der­ing, fly­ing, fly­ing in our stomachs.

It is not always so easy and so care­free, but so is the nature of most things in life with sub­stance. To love some­body is also provide them access with an unmatched abil­ity to hurt you—you have opened up to them and you have placed so very much trust in them, and with such mutual feel­ings comes such an ability—the abil­ity to do so much more dam­age. It is not easy when we fight, it is not some­thing we enjoy, but it is some­thing that happens—something that hurts. It is even more pain­ful when we are so far apart—that pro­found sense of loneli­ness hits you, and you wish so hard that you had her in your arms, telling you that everything will be fine. On some days, the pain is far too much, and the tempta­tion to push away is over­whelm­ing, but it is perseverance—and the hope for a bet­ter tomorrow—that keeps us trundling for­ward, along with occa­sional bouts of aid from the other per­son. We provide the most hap­pi­ness and the most pain to each other—so is the para­dox of love.

Wishes at 11:11, wishes on shoot­ing stars, wishes on eye­lashes fallen down, wishes, wishes, wishes, dreams, and hopes—they cross through our mind as we lie tangled together in bed, bod­ies tiredly pressed together, sheets and hair askew, joy­ful, bliss­ful, content—all what mat­ters at that exact moment is us. Time ceases to move for­ward in our per­cep­tion and the out­side world grinds to a halt—we are bliss­fully unaware of any­one or any­thing other than us. We treas­ure that feel­ing so very much, because for that period of time, noth­ing else mat­ters, noth­ing else wor­ries us, noth­ing else both­ers us—the magic of a kiss, the magic of being held in someone’s arms, the magic of being in love.

इश्क़ के जज़्बातो को बताए कैसे
अरे ये थोडे ही ढल पाये है लब्जो मै मेरे
कहा से लाउ वोह किताब या सियाही
जो लिख पाये अनगिनत एह्सास मेरे?

—Unknown Source