On "love"

A chauvenist's take on love

My insides squirm,

My heart is scooped up into a cup,

Squeezed and stretched,

I am gripped with an excitement that I think is pleasure

Thought of sex and the like evaporate, deserting me in an instant,

Leaving behind a sensation that engulfs me,

I stand like an angel in a trance,

Bereft of corruption, virgin and pure

Pangs of like and dislike,

Of attraction and repulsion,

Pulsate -

Not unlike the pain of a woman in labour

The heart beats so fast that I think it is missing beats

Looking upon her as an angel, a goddess

Painting my image of her with qualities that I desire

Some from my mother and from others I admire

She is but another person,

Perhaps very different from what I want her to be

Don't I know that?

I choose not to believe it

With random heartbeat,

Lurches in my stomach,

And pulsations of like and dislike in phase with them,

I choose to stay drunk and be swayed by these waves

I delude myself into thinking that this is a great feeling,

More pathetic than a dog tasting its own blood,

Than an insect succumbing to light,

Or a beast caught in a swamp,

I burn her image into my head,

Let my heart leap at every sight,

Jumping in joy at every gesture,

Cherishing every smile and talk,

In solitude and in dreams I am haunted,

With images of romantic moments,

Of being with her, of talking to her,

With that one song ringing in my head throughout,

Why does everything sanctify this? This love?

It is no great feat,

A mere competition - with ten such men trying to win her heart,

Being judged by a person of less worth,

It is unfair, unfortunate,

That men of such calibre should fall so low,

And quite surprising to see where desire leads a man,

Standing strong against swords but being swept off by a smile.

Aren't there worthy women too?

Does such talk objectify her?

Oh yes, but in this field it is they who choose to be objects,

Wasting words of poetry, stories and colours of art

There are countless varieties, but are all clichéd,

The damsel in distress, the dominatrix,

The childhood friend, the one they all seek,

The cute charmer, or that old familiar face,

I turn a blind eye to all that I don't want in her,

Accepting every word,

Chained, bound,

By the fear of losing her

In the presence of this love,

Every emotion intensifies,

Be it happiness, depression, passion or disgust,

Like a chemical reaction with a catalyst

Possessing undeserved glory,

For centuries if not more,

Even its name stands, in truth, for something greater,

Now reduced to imply this cheap, crude desire,

Praised as a soft edge to a brave man,

Unduly compared with the likeness of boldness and chivalry,

Would I blame her for it?

The woman who has been my mother, sister, friend or wife?

That would be a lie, for she didn't start it,

It was always me - my weak mind, my weak heart.

Written on 14th March, 2016 (between afternoon and night)