August rains are pretty plain. It is only when it rains during the burning heat of a summer day, when we stand with no umbrella above our head or no jackets covering us do we feel every drop of the sky's elixir.
Only when love drizzles during a dry summer zone in life do we actually feel its inherent power, its intensity and its trueness shorn of all ambiguities and pretenses. Only then does it reveal its full glory. And we drench in it, almost in disbelief, coming as near to touching reality as we had ever imagined possible with all our awakened senses and soul.
Courage, Freedom, and such ridiculously pure joy assail us as we stand soaked to the skin, that the whole world seems surreal and 'oh so perfect'!. Everything else seems like a jarring note when compared to the melody that sings within us. We get set to conquer the world. To conquer love.
And that is where we skid and fall, and love suddenly refuses to drizzle upon us. For so great had been our joy, that life begins to refuse scorching us anymore. The burning summer melts away, and life dresses in all its beauty for august.
But somewhere we let the innocence of joy be killed, for we are now inside our hearths, safe and warm and dry. And presumably happy, and presumably still holding love. But love is outside, banging at the door, crying , writhing in pain to be let in, but so contented are we with the fireplace that we forget the blue fire that had almost swallowed us. Our heads are held high in pride, but courage and freedom have run away, and not even their shadow is there within us. For what is courage and freedom without the purpose of love? What is joy without the depth of love? What is life if love should only be like august rains, predictable and fathomable? Does anyone believe in a summer love too? Perhaps we will know after winter and spring have come and gone, and when summer again comes glaring at us. But until then, we will need a few more drops to keep the magic alive, to keep the hope from fading away like a fairytale dream.
Look! Love is thinking of going away! Maybe we should call out to it. But what do we call it? Do you know what is love's name? No? Why is it still such a stranger to us? Or has it forgotten itself amidst the numerous identities that we force and thrust upon it? Does love even have a name?
Only when love drizzles during a dry summer zone in life do we actually feel its inherent power, its intensity and its trueness shorn of all ambiguities and pretenses. Only then does it reveal its full glory. And we drench in it, almost in disbelief, coming as near to touching reality as we had ever imagined possible with all our awakened senses and soul.
Courage, Freedom, and such ridiculously pure joy assail us as we stand soaked to the skin, that the whole world seems surreal and 'oh so perfect'!. Everything else seems like a jarring note when compared to the melody that sings within us. We get set to conquer the world. To conquer love.
And that is where we skid and fall, and love suddenly refuses to drizzle upon us. For so great had been our joy, that life begins to refuse scorching us anymore. The burning summer melts away, and life dresses in all its beauty for august.
But somewhere we let the innocence of joy be killed, for we are now inside our hearths, safe and warm and dry. And presumably happy, and presumably still holding love. But love is outside, banging at the door, crying , writhing in pain to be let in, but so contented are we with the fireplace that we forget the blue fire that had almost swallowed us. Our heads are held high in pride, but courage and freedom have run away, and not even their shadow is there within us. For what is courage and freedom without the purpose of love? What is joy without the depth of love? What is life if love should only be like august rains, predictable and fathomable? Does anyone believe in a summer love too? Perhaps we will know after winter and spring have come and gone, and when summer again comes glaring at us. But until then, we will need a few more drops to keep the magic alive, to keep the hope from fading away like a fairytale dream.
Look! Love is thinking of going away! Maybe we should call out to it. But what do we call it? Do you know what is love's name? No? Why is it still such a stranger to us? Or has it forgotten itself amidst the numerous identities that we force and thrust upon it? Does love even have a name?
