The love stories they talked about, in the sonnets and the ballads and the novels and the four-act plays
For ages and ages, across continents and countries, across languages and faiths
Not the ones about rose petalled dreams and the in-tune violins, no, because even as a naive adolescent, I knew they were false advertising of imagined hopes at best
The ones that just had a regular love story you know, the love story that'd be bruised and battered, black and blue, but in the end, still be a fucking love story
Where the fuck are they
Have any of you ever wondered
It's a hard world to live in, a harder world to love in
No one likes labels and boxes, while craving clarity and transparency
Everyone likes a sense of humour and yet not one can't not be offended at the very idea of being the butt of a joke, for a joke's sake
No one wants to be alone even on solo trips and yet keep complaining of space to their partner, in 600 square feet of a rented dingy 1-bedroom flat
Everyone wants to be a part of something like a herd of cattle, while hoping to stand out in the crowd of social media algorithms
How do you keep up in a world where newer oxymorons brewing froth every day is the only acceptable version of normal
You hope you'll find love in a world this fucked up
Because hope you see, is a potent drug, more potent and more delusional than a cocktail of cocaine, meth, and hashish
You hope someone who read the same books as you did, and believe the same shit as you do, will cross paths with you at the crossroads of a dating app algorithm
Because who meets new people like they used to do in the olden days, in libraries and bookstores, in overcrowded buses and politically motivated debates
But then, were the love stories of the olden days any better either, really
I guess it was just a different kind of fucked up than what it is today
Because you didn't have social media to hashtag the fuck out of your life
Because writing poetry wasn't an aspiration to pretend you were cool, but the manifestation of a cancerous lump from years of trauma
Because love was still a luring dream that didn't fit in the search history of your internet browser
Love was still fucked up though; I mean have you seen your parents
When was the last time you saw them agree on something like adult members of a civilised society
I know what you're thinking or atleast trying to think or rather, shall I say hopelessly hope
You are trying real hard to think of scenarios where they might have actually agreed, in peace
And as the last three decades of your life around your parents flashed in front of your eyes, your heart got busier than usual, sensing your brain panic to the images of the two people whose being together in life and in love is the sole reason of your god-damned existence
It's funny how an entire generation of people who wastes no time in calling people out for their toxicity was in fact born out of a love that was rather toxic, in its very essence
Where do you think those fucked up, toxic, ridiculous ideas of love, you genetically inherited, went
Hold a mirror to every love story you've ever tried to live, and look deep within, and you'll know
It's arrogant and audacious trying to find an eco-friendly love story involving a species that fed the entire planet, plastic
Every time I hear yet another poet talk about how pure and innocent and glamorous love is
I feel like throwing up, the acids in my gut start screaming slogans like it was a goddamn protest march
For I've loved, and I've lived love
Have you seen chain smokers, how they keep smoking subtly overlooking the persistent cough because it's convenent for their addiction
I have always felt love is a lot like smoking
You know it's a bad idea but you're also addicted to the reality of it
You know it is killing you from within, bit by bit, one fight at a time, and you know every time the damage done is every time a bigger gaping hole is left staring you in the face
You know the right thing to do would be to walk away, so the ghosts of your fuckups can finally stop haunting each other, but then you hope tomorrow will be different, because some motivational quote you read up on the internet said, "Life's all about second chances"
You keep forgetting, your limited privileges aren't currency enough to buy your life second chances, because love makes you do stupid things, like, gouge your eyes out and throw them under the wheels of a god-damn bullet train
But then what is life if not an anthology of your compromises and your sacrifices and your utter brave choices, because even in love, you got to win, because no one cares about team efforts in an autobiography
I know you have waited to see how this ends
A fucking cynical piece of shit going on rampaging about love just because he doesn't understand it
This ends exactly how love ends, how smoking ends, and how poetry ends
In death, wishing there was a closure
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