I’d always thought that I’d be immune to the recalcitrant throes of love.
The sleepless nights, the blurry days, the endless wait just to catch a glimpse of you.
I never thought that I’d be an addict, living by the hour, thriving on fixes with you being my narcotic of sustenance.
But life seemed to have other plans.
In the beginning I was in denial. Maybe I was too confident of my immunity to the throes of love. Maybe I feared the fragility too much. I, like most, had trust issues. The thing about trust issues is that nobody is worth trusting until one fine day, someone just is. Your very presence liquefied the trapdoors behind which the sedated demons legitimizing my present hid. I wanted to share every dark secret, every dark story that made me, me. I wanted to know you, understand you, dissect the demons of your present, entrap the phantoms of your past and pave the dreams of your future with the mosaic of infallibility.
But did you?
Of course you didn’t.
Why would you?
Denial soon sublimed, giving way to uninhibited, unrestrained, silent admiration. The seemingly bland meaningless conversations we had, conveyed dimensions to me. My seemingly average memory seamlessly retained every detail, every nuance and every syllable of yours, with prodigal fluidity.
We started talking. To you I was just another face in the ocean of anonymity, but you were my ocean. An ocean I wanted to dive deep into, deeper than anyone had ever attempted. I wanted to explore the Mariana Trench of your soul and scale the Mount Everest of your existence.
Irreverence soon gave way to belligerence.
I was angry.
I was angry on you.
But I was enraged at myself.
How could I fall for that one person who’d never be mine?
Was I not smart enough?
Was I not attractive enough?
Would a chiseled physique and a MENSA membership change your idea about me? Would you look at me differently if I offered you a ride home on a Harley Davidson or parked a Porsche in front of your place at 3AM?
Did someone infiltrate the sanctum of your unadulterated affection only to permanently maim the nascent romantic that once resided inside you?
These are questions that haunted me even in my sleep.
I tried to move on.
My psyche conspired vehemently each time I tried, only to fling me back into the dark well of misplaced affection I had dug for myself.
A cyclone seemed to ensue in my mind every time I saw you and my heart started to pump faster than it possibly knew it could. Maybe it was a feeble attempt on its part to escape the monstrous cyclone that was swirling overhead, only to fail in the most miserable of ways.
Psychology and physiology conspired in unison declaring civil war on my existence.
Weeks gave way to months, months to semesters.
My unrequited love started to seem like an aggressive form of Cancer spreading throughout my body while I stood there watching myself slowly disintegrate.
Depression seemed perpetual. I was alone in my fortress of solitude. “Never again…” I repeatedly promised myself.
I bargained with myself.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe she was just another girl.
Maybe I fell in love with the idea of her. Not her.
Maybe I fell in love with the idea of love and for some deeply buried subconscious machination my idea of her became inextricably entwined with my idea of romantic solitude.
Winter seemed to finally come to an end. Spring was just beyond the horizon. I emerged wiser. I could see more. I could feel more. A man emerged from the cold, frozen corpse of unrequited love. Love was no longer replete with the blazing sirens of excitement, the uncontrolled flux of passion and the fire of spontaneity. Love was letting go of the illusion of control. Love was finding order in chaos. Love was finding meaning and purpose in the radiating chaos of the cosmos.
Our nonexistent affair changed me, molded me and evolved me into the man I am today. For that I thank my idea of you. And I thank you for being the scaffold holding my idea of you together.
I remember a lesson from my engineering mathematics class. “An asymptote of a curve is a line such that the distance between the curve and the line approaches zero as they tend to infinity.”
In other words, the curve and the line approach as close they possibly can, but they never meet.
You’re my curve and I’m your line.
I’ll be yours,