>> Jun 26, 2011
Bricks get burned to make a house. Red, rectangular they are. Never knowing that burning with siblings will comfort many a laughter, many a tears and much more. Women burn with jealousy. There is no comfort in that. It is red, squarish - even from each side. They are like camphors. they burn to get into ashes or into airs. Men burn in indifference. They never know when their souls were stoned and they made bricks out of it in fire - sheltering only themselves. Houses never become homes.
Who is love? Feelings are funny. They have many a crossroads inside you than you know. The shortest route to reach a heart is a mathematics. But to stay there is humane. After making love, in the morning when you look at the walls and the bricks that burned themselves to let you have the comfort of a home, there is a woman who sleeps next to you wrapping herself up in a wrinkled bedsheet. At that point of time, there is a reality check. If the bricks were for that woman, that is love.
There are secrets in our eyes. Ones that ironically crave to be read but hide themselves in shyness. Someone told me you need a storm to read it. I have always preferred quietness - the pauses of it, the screaming of it. So I preferred a prism. Love is about absorbing all its reflections. Its so beautiful that you won't like to touch and feel lusty. You will be ruining a ray if you do that. we wait. That is the softest part of it.
The bricks, the love, the mind - we all are builders of our world in ways. Its a triangle that balances the geometry we choose to live for.
That whole part of it is called, finding a reason.