Those who believe that love at its first flush is representative of love for all time are in for disappointment, said the heavily wrinkled face beneath a cap of brilliant white hair.
Deep disappointment, he added as if his earlier words did not sufficiently impress its depth and ended with a sigh. He looks down at the various shades of pigeons; some stalked about purposefully on the ground, some of them look at him expectantly. He flicks some seeds on to the ground and the volume of cooing immediately swells and there is a rush of feather.
Love in her seduction of us, lures us with her best colours at first. Then teaches us her harder more painful lessons. We learn of her harshness, her single mindedness, her conquest, her encumbrances, her obstacles. Because Love is not easy, he said. You have to work for her. You must be able to offer her reasons when she requires them. There is no respite in your duty to her. There is nothing you can offer in substitute. Blood and tears are the only currency with Love.
The cool twilight wind that blew through the park ruffled his hair with a lover’s careless caress.
Blood and tears, you understand, he says.
And Love’s fickleness and betrayal. I am familiar with those equally influential advisers of hers. She may take you down so deep and mazy a corridor and then leave you there. Alone. And without her grace. She can be cruel like that, he said. But she does that to help us to live without her as we do with her.
The hint of sun was quickly fading. The night drawing back the day, stripping the night of all its deepening and now more vivid colours.
But I never hated her, he thought to himself.
The pigeons have gone. The breeze has stopped.
Never, he said breaking the stillness of the night.
Deep disappointment, he added as if his earlier words did not sufficiently impress its depth and ended with a sigh. He looks down at the various shades of pigeons; some stalked about purposefully on the ground, some of them look at him expectantly. He flicks some seeds on to the ground and the volume of cooing immediately swells and there is a rush of feather.
Love in her seduction of us, lures us with her best colours at first. Then teaches us her harder more painful lessons. We learn of her harshness, her single mindedness, her conquest, her encumbrances, her obstacles. Because Love is not easy, he said. You have to work for her. You must be able to offer her reasons when she requires them. There is no respite in your duty to her. There is nothing you can offer in substitute. Blood and tears are the only currency with Love.
The cool twilight wind that blew through the park ruffled his hair with a lover’s careless caress.
Blood and tears, you understand, he says.
And Love’s fickleness and betrayal. I am familiar with those equally influential advisers of hers. She may take you down so deep and mazy a corridor and then leave you there. Alone. And without her grace. She can be cruel like that, he said. But she does that to help us to live without her as we do with her.
The hint of sun was quickly fading. The night drawing back the day, stripping the night of all its deepening and now more vivid colours.
But I never hated her, he thought to himself.
The pigeons have gone. The breeze has stopped.
Never, he said breaking the stillness of the night.
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2 comments:
and I have grown older,
and you have grown colder,
and nothing is so much fun...anymore...
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