One wrong person can mess your whole life. True.
But to reach the right person, you must pass through a couple of wrong persons. Else you will never realize happiness without sorrows.
Just like the prerequisite of divorce is: marriage. I know. Deviation. It’s an art and it’s not always out of the context.
Anyway. Back to that person.
So, you may find the right person but s/he may not be in a position to claim the same.
Your right. Yet not vice versa. Zero sum.
Then you see your wrong one matching perfectly with someone else. Syncing. Algorithm.
Just like your worst enemy is someone’s best friend. And your best friend is someone’s foe.
Tell her to go! Deviation! Leave!
Perhaps, it’s after the existential crisis itself that tells you the crux of the whole journey. And the crux is: it was you.
You were the wrong person all along. The entire dot in your universe was you.
You.
Hence, you.
Category: Unfulfilled Desires
Consent
Consent. The big argument.
Yet, we are thrown in this world without consent. To suffer without consent. Emotionally. Physically. Psychologically. Financially. Socially.
Suffer. Till last breath. Without consent.
And then there are threats after death. Threats of eternal suffering. But where is the consent?
Would you have consented to born in this world, if asked?
Have you seen a 3-year old crying with pain in a hospital? Have you seen severe pain on an innocent face?
Have you imagined a sexually abused 5-year old being stitched?
Have you seen kids born with major health issues? Heart surgery at the age of 2? Dialysis at 10?
Have you seen someone finding Operation Theatre in a public hospital with a bleeding girl in hands?
Have you seen a son taking his unconscious mother on his shoulders from ambulance to stretcher?
Have you seen people taking dead body out of the emergency room? Suffering emotionally and hurt financially and broken potentially.
Have you seen the ordeal of people praying outside the ICU or CCU?
Have you observed people lined outside emergency counter in public hospitals, while their loved ones bleeding on an stretcher in scorching heat?
Have you seen pain in the eys of your kid? Or your mother? Or your father? Or a stranger?
Have you stared into such eyes?
Have you seen a very familiar gaze – like of your mother – looking at you for one last time? Getting stranger by passing time? Dying with all the unfullfiled wishes?
And… have you seen request / plea for death? Verbally / non-verbally? People consenting to die? People trying to die? Wishing to die? Praying to die?
‘You don’t know Jack’ perhaps. I do. And I agree with him.
But not allowed.
Misery is allowed, freedom isn’t.
Painful beats are allowed, free absence isn’t.
Killing is allowed too in certain cases, suicide isn’t.
Suicide is also allowed in certain cases, if benefiting a king or a barren land or a gory war.
However, there is no concept of consent in nature. Not at all. Nowhere. A tiger kills any animal he wishes. One has the power to drill his teeth while the other is only born to be eaten alive.
Nothing is consented. Except pain and suffering.
We want the weak ones to give consent to the powerful ones. Isn’t diat / qisas consent? From the miserable to the powerful?
Freedom denied.
Suffering legalized.
Questions and questions. Without solutions. Right? Read again. There is no solution. Because there is no consent.
Or you can denounce. Denounce everything. That exists and that doesn’t. Maybe then you will see a light at the end of this miserable tunnel of being. Or maybe that will lead to another tunnel. Who knows? Were neither asked nor told.
Post Script:
Schopenhauer believed that the only way to avoid suffering is not to be born at all. For him, death was the only way to peace. Nietzsche tilted from Schopenhauer’s philosophy and blamed suffering to religion. Like Marx. But Marx mentioned it as an ‘opium’ too to ease the pain for the masses. But this way or that way – you suffer without consent.
She. H! Scented. Unnamed.
When do you stop taking your chances? Well, there are no chances. You try and you exhaust yourself for nothing.
She was a blonde. No, not a real blonde. Dyed blonde. Blue lens. Cleft chin. Little mascara. Neatly manicured. Glossed lips. And silken voice. No, he didn’t notice these details until she left.
By the way it’s ‘blond’ for guys and ‘blonde’ for girls.
Anyway, there are over 7 billion people on earth. 3.5 billion is the opposite gender. Of those 3.5 billion, you get to know and meet around 500. Of those 500, 400 won’t either consider you or you won’t consider them. Of the 100, you won’t think of 80 as a long-term partner. This leaves you with 20. You get your fling, settle with one, and that’s ‘I love you’.
‘I love you too.’
Or, you get this done through a matrimonial service. Dreaming to make fairy-tales come true with a complete random stranger.
Apart from that, you get your chance of love with only living humans. Not from Roman era, or medieval times, or renaissance. I know it’s scary to think but I’m trying to make a point. You don’t choose time. Or anything. You think you choose, but you don’t. No one chooses here. No one chooses you. You don’t choose anyone.
It’s an algorithm, based on possible chances, with your vested interests in mind, infatuation, and bingo… you are married. A step away from divorce.
Chances of divorce are zero if you don’t get married. But you do.
Chances of domestic abuse and psychological torture are zero if you don’t succumb to “settling down”. But you do.
Chances of seeing your love story ripped apart are rare if you leave on time. But you don’t.
Only half fulfilled loves stories are forever. They are worth imagining and re-living. Because they don’t see their eventual demise, and you can dream about them anyway you want to.
And here comes the woman with the cleft chin.
She was in love with an idea of someone ideal. An image. But she fell in love with someone not-ideal. So, she used her imaginative powers and imagined him ideally. She thought about him as she wanted to.
She built her love story around lies. She lied about her name, her city, her everything. So as to build a love story in accordance with her ideal idea of a love story.
That guy knew nothing real about her, except her cleft chin… with her hair dyed, eyes lensed, lips glossed and mascara; cleft chin was the only real her he knew.
She was so afraid of the world and its eyes and its questions that she camouflaged herself in her own manipulated love story.
So what? Her love was real. Her idea was real. Her manipulations for love were real too. She was the one who chose him. She actually exercised the ‘choosing’, unlike the rest of the world which only have an illusion of choosing.
A dimple on chin. A devil within.
And then, she left. She gathered enough memories to have an imagination forever. She gathered enough words from him to imagine his voice for the rest of her life. She chose him. She left him. She disappeared from his life without a warning. She left before the question of ‘forever together’ or death of the whole affair.
Because she knew that only half fulfilled love stories are forever.
He for her. Forever.