Destinies That Glow In The Dark Do Not Fit Our Daylit Dreams

So why does she need him? Him, who makes her happy only in the intervals of life's drudgery; who torments her by making his absences more important dates to remember; and whose sentimental refusal to be a part of her façades and charades makes her yearn for an unattainable pleasure; whose mere presence makes her feel that this must be love, that thing that the poets have sung for eons. A gaze into her yes, even when it’s filled with hatred; a touch even when it’s careless; a hug, even when it’s formal; a breath taken together even when in vengeance: miracle and love are all interchangeable understatements in all these rendezvous. Because, everything good and bad and purely evil becomes so unfathomably profound and immeasurably meaningful in that sudden moment when her eyes meet his. Even the most prosaic, cynical and idealistic of human beings would start lying to their families, if they had the misfortune of experiencing this even once in their lifetimes. Even the most despised and despaired of men would hold on to hope and salvation, only so that this lasts forever. The etymology of magic wasn’t studied by the believers of logic. Trouble starts when this love asks for its own legitimacy; when it desires a bed every night instead of just the New Moons; when she takes her lover's hands, holds, feels, wraps her fingers she around, and pulls close to her breasts; this love, without which they have lived forever, suddenly claims to be no more. This love, who realised its place in the story a decade too late. This love, which is cloaked in the coping mechanisms of broken souls. This love that swears on Charles Dickens and Lord Byron that it has a safe password to the pleasures of flesh, even when there’s poison running through its victim's veins. This love claims for the luxuries of a perfect present before it can claim the honour of fate.