Writer, by love...

"The earth turned to bring us closer.
It turned on itself and in us , until it finally brought us together in this dream."

When in love, every love scene in a film, every romantic song composed and every line in a poem about love seems written just for our heart rotating around that so powerful universal emotion.

Neuroscience says that love is just the result of over secretion of 'Dopamine' by the A-10 cells - a phenomenon that generally occurs while taking in cocaine (no wonder then that most of us feel ourselves flying above the ground when in love). But the feeling of love, when it occurs, does not seem like just the result of an over-expression of a group of cells. It seems something more, sometimes even everything in life and rightly so. No other human emotion seems so singular and so powerful in its expression that it makes a hero out of a coward and a romantic out of a ruffian. The sense of belonging, the intensive possessiveness, the inexplicable helplessness - a human could never possibly become one without going through these.

'Love makes a poet out of everyone it touches', they say. I still find my poetry quite appalling but it did definitely make an average writer out of me.

There are a very few moments that occur in life that remain etched in our memory. Many many beautiful moments get lost by our terribly weak retentive capacity. When in love, for some reason, every second that passes in the company of the loved one seems special and every day that is spent in the romantic relationship seems to be begging you to record it. It never strikes you as you write down every single memorable moment as to what would these memories mean if the romance never works out. The mind just seems in a hurry to capture those greater-than-life happenings and it is only that which matters then.

When things go well, the written pieces seem priceless. But when read on a day - a day of a memorable occasion (love creates many of these) or the birthday of the loved one perhaps - a day well beyond the end of things, they shatter your heart. 

You start wondering as to how could so beautiful a thing become so cruel that even a happy moment in the past could cause only suffocation. And a feeling of anger overtakes the mind for having foolishly recorded all those moments to be torn apart later.

What did I gain from those pieces? Not happiness. Not warmth. A writer, perhaps.

But the realization only seems to make it worse. Would writing ever become a substitute for love?

The meaningless text messages exchanged then seem more meaningful than the Russian literature read to enhance the ethnicity of writing now. The completely absurd arguments argued then seem more pleasing than the constant nagging of ideas in the brain now. Staring continuously at the mobile screen and jumping out in joy at the beep sound of a message received then seems more preferable than the occasional visits to the dash-board of this blog with the tiny bursts of happiness when the page-view count increases now.

Who would want to write at the cost of love? What has writing given me that love could not have?

As all these thoughts accumulate together to form an emotional rain cloud ready to burst, you feel so desperate and devastated that you want to let the cloud burst and let it pour.

And then you realize - you do have a chance to pour it out. 

By writing.

And a tiny helpless smile appears on your face.

Love works in mysterious ways. More so does life!