My hunch for Dihan is not a flash of an idea but a red-hot and fiery mislaying, inhibited by an enduring passion; martyrdom has never been my inherited style.
His self-inflicted vain and snobbish stance keeps the possibility of his inner soul committing and connecting something in a particularly specific way which could give a peace of mind to both parties into the imagined relationship. A solo drum is the rhythm of my heart, and my heart beats a solo musical extravaganza.
My love for him might be an afflatus and a stimulus for the community of poets and novelists whose blue sky thinking keeps the community of ardent readers on the seventh heaven. I am head over heels for him who denies sharing the exact feeling of deeply rooted romantic emotions that keep me down in the dumps. I invariably and incessantly carry a torch for Dihan; he is not my old flame either.
I lie low and that is in favour of my mental health. My research indicates that seeing through rose coloured glasses in an unreciprocated love gives me a wild goose chase. However, despite my fantasy on him being a mirage and terrifying in reality, I become kooky and nutty in my wildest imaginations; I kill him with my kindness.
Heart of gold
I have never doubted in declaring my love for him; I don’t hesitate wearing my heart on my sleeve. He has a heart of gold and the same makes him the apple of my eye. My love for him is a one way crescent; it’s a terrace where nothing is exchanged, and it is predominantly decorated with optimism, anguish and misery.
Encountering unrequited love is not much of a walk in the park; it might be twisted together with emotional chaos and confusion. My love for him is not merely a lovey-dovey sonnet; it is a match made in heaven.
My love for him is a battlefield. I am in the front line, battling with my emotions, I am in the killing field, withstanding my notion, I am at the seat of war, resisting my own instinct, the sixth sense, I am on the theatre of operations, standing up to my logic; it is the battle of my heart in which I can never be victorious.
I lose and lose over and over. I give up myself completely to him; my power of territory is ceded to him. I adore him, I blindly assume that we fit together as much as the fitting of the puzzle pieces have been.
I cherish my self-declared imagined bond with him. I just fail in my attempt of counting the ways in which I fall head over heels with him, as there is no number for infinity. More I dote on him; more he detests on me. More I cling to him; more he detaches from me.
The more I sob my eyes out, the more the boisterous guffaw he makes. On some days that are wrench and twist, from the crack of dawn to the darker stage of twilight, I question and contemplate on my self-worth; I may time after time get intrigued over my unfounded scantiness. He is a tough cookie, a determined and firm stalwart.
His career is nothing but an exciting sport. His passengers trust him. His passengers bank on his safe pair of hands. He has never been down in the dumps, shunning my cheering up, he remains emotionally stable. Being incredibly conscientious is one of his central traits. He is intrinsically high in deliberation.
His unwavering courage rescues him in a sea of challenges. He obeys his conscience. His plans spring with thoughtfulness. His routines inspire me and should I kill my love for him! No, I shouldn’t and my love for him as the Bard penned is a durable fire that never quenches but ever grows.
