In a slowly moving train, despite its huge noise, my naked eyes spotted you; your smart sitting posture on the steps to the train’s compartment was invariably captivating. You were a durable fire; your flame was a real burn.
The train moved on at top speed. I may still imperceptibly feel myself as if I were a strange creature descended from above the sky. In spite of my sheer feeling of inapplicability of myself as per the context of a rapidly moving train, I just wanted to approach you with my tenderness saved for you in my heart, while also having the desire of sitting right next you, leaning tightly on your body that reflects the masculine vigour of the toughest boxing giant of all time.
Risking myself on the flying train, I just had a fancy for a moment where I could lie down just beside you on the iron steps of the compartment, to wrap my arms around your slender waist as the twilight retired, leaving the shadows of evening, casting a gloom over the whole of the quiet solitude.
Like the scenes that depict utter romance in the Academy Awards-winning movies, just to keep my head right on your broad shoulders and to close my eyes so as to feel the swaying comfort of them making me fallen asleep for a second right there in the most innocent sense of the phrase, had been my long awaited adventure with you. But I was short of courage, nor did I summon it.
Stunning damsel
Then in the next moment, your sweetheart appeared. I was like a fish out of water, there were butterflies in my stomach. Your sweetheart was a stunning damsel by virtue; I was in anguish, in distress and in despair, so boring and she was endlessly absorbing and beguiling. I walked back to the train’s adjoining compartment and collapsed on the sponge seat covered with leather, thinking that if you were rain, I was a drizzle, and she was a hurricane.
Your memory still feels like a home to me, therefore as and when my mind wonders, it often effortlessly and naturally finds its way right back to you. The silence between you and I are an ocean and do I drown in it. I would shed a sea of tears for you; losing the sleep during a countless number of nights while eating a lot of raw food, somehow, I got to move on.
Life would be terrifying as a hell, if I didn’t shake loose from the grip you had on my heart. I am just trying to convince myself that there comes a time in your life when you are reminded to turn the chapter, start writing another book or simply lose it. The moving train reminds me of the fact that the thoughts that I carry about you on my head are also the heaviest burden of mine.
I bury the silent moments of the journey in the train so deeply, and whenever I recollect such moments, I weep. Despite unrequited love being one of the finest insights for the making of a universal protagonist for the likes of Shakespeare, TS Elliot and Lord Tennyson, it is one of the most distressing and excruciating experiences that my poor soul is struggling to tolerate.
My thoughts wept right throughout the train journey worrying about my sheer stupidity of the fact that I am either foolishly or insanely clogged and inundated with strong desire and lust for a person whom I can never have.
Mental torture
The moving train gives me a lesson for a moment and teaches me of the aching bitter truth that the red signals of rejection given by you is a heavy and throbbing blow that keeps me in an eternal battle of winning your heart. I am still being taught that unilaterally falling in love with you who doesn’t love me in return stings pretty tormenting and agonising. I may burn with utmost desire but yet struggle to keep it at bay: it can also be one of the toughest mental tortures and traumas that I may bring on myself.
Meanwhile, I recollect a caption of Carol Rifka: “Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home”, included “Maybe I was destined to forever fall in love with people I couldn’t have. Maybe there’s a whole assortment of impossible people waiting for me to find them. Waiting to make me feel the same impossibility over and over again.”
I am inspired by a popular adage which declares that “Even love unreturned has its rainbow”. My unrequited love for you is immortal; it is only beaten down to a secret place where it hides itself, it weeps, it is curled and fatally wounded.
However, I am forced to admit in the fact that an unrequited love is effortlessly better than a real love which is declared, exchanged, and equally accepted by both parties in love. I frequently tell myself that it is perfect, as long as a relationship is never even started, you never ever have to imagine the worries surrounded by its ending; it arguably has endless potential.
Placing my head on my knees I allow my absurd and loony tears to fall unbridled. I am bawling over the loss of somebody I never had. How nonsensical I can be! Lamenting someone who had never been there with me before.
As the train reaches at its destination, I think back to the time of the Victorian era where I set my mind on Emily Bronte’s “Wuthering Heights” and find me in one of its utterances that reflects my inner soul “I gave him my heart and he took and pinched it to death and flung it back to me”.