About a Love

“If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.”- Michel de Montaigne.

I read it somewhere. I did not know who Montaigne was. But he just made sense. Now I know who Montaigne was. And he still makes sense. I wish I could say the same for “him” though. I suppose I know “him” better now. But it makes no sense.

‘Love’ might just as well be another four letter word; but we all know it’s not. Atleast our ancestors could have spared us the trouble and approached it more scientifically than to just hand it over to the brooding artists and the starving poets as their Rumpelstiltskin. Love definitely did weave gold for them but look what it did to us mere mortals. How simple things would be if someone had taken the pain to define it, list in alphabetical order the symptoms, characteristics, preventive measures and cures. But clearly no empirical study was ever conducted. At this point of time I do not know what my ailment is – am I lovesick or am I simply sick of love? But either way, some amount of sickness remains. Since nobody possesses the degree to treat such a condition, and I can hardly trust the quacks on radio stations, televisions and in gypsy tents in the neighbourhood fairs, I have resorted to the next best option - Self medication. It is imperative to mention here that all the advice given by friends, relatives and well wishers have been paid adequate heed to. Nothing has worked so far. The knot in my throat has not loosened, the nausea is still intact and the queasy feeling in my guts is definitely not the result of irritable bowel movement. It is also at this crucial juncture that one falls prey to severe hypochondria and starts to imagine all the excruciatingly painful ways in which this could end. If I could, I would have definitely employed Allie Brosch to draw the images in my head. But the truth is I can’t afford her and I can’t draw; hence the rest must remain untold, left to imagination. Go crazy. You have my permission.