There's a reason why I can't put you down on paper.
Take for instance today. I've been going through the day like a cottonseed goes through wind. With a heavy centre, yet light enough to be swayed at ease. Missing you turns into a floating feeling of loss. But then, we promised to each other that we can't let our love do us down...so I keep up the spirit. Strange, I still can't recall a single thing I did today to feel alive.
This is not the first day I'm spending without you. Nor will it be the last. In such moments of desperate attempts, of reconciling with the fact that you aren't and won't be mine, the only other thing that can hold me back from the fall, apart from your love, is writing. Why then, even when my heart bleeds white, don't I write.
It's not that I don't have the required ingredients.
You are the kind of man even novels can't create. In many ways, beyond imagination. They could never get the entire sketch complete, I now know after meeting you. They either left the character wanting, or the looks waning, or the attitude a bit too pricey, or the setting not-so-natural. They did manage to create an aura around their heroes, but they didn't give him the core of a mother. The resilience of a fighter. The sweetness of a giver. The forgiveness of a saint. The passion of a sinner. The balance of the Ultimate. These writers, these painters, these film-makers...tch...they should be called in a conference and made to know you.
Memories are there in abundance too. Our love story can inspire movies...which can lead the adolescent to take right decisions, adults to be hopeful, and old ones to understand divine intervention. The sweetness can melt stone-walled hearts, the mischief can tickle children, the giving can surprise all norms, the romance can teach a trick or two, and the completeness can attract Gods. Our book of love can have it all. From the wholesomeness of purpose to the licking flames of ardor.
The amount of goodness in your being is difficult to portray, and it puts the author under tremendous pressure to choose each word your kind of finesse and rectitude...but the power of your love can make that too possible.
Then why on earth don't I write. On you, about you; on us, about us.
It is because you are my worshipped. And the worshipper can only sing paeans in praise of her Lord. She can't altogether bind him. In words or pictures or music or dance or whichever form she chooses as a medium. She can at best try to capture him, and in the effort, show glimpses of his ethereal self. But it is, and it shall remain, beyond her power to give him his due.
You, my Eeshwar, are beyond the reach of my entire being, let alone my poor pen. Dedicated as I am to you, I don’t fancy for a second that I could re-produce your essence in any other form. I am only delighted, and blessed, to have whatever little part of you. Rest all is bonus.Finally, I am a theist.