Love

At times I get this urge to describe love. I want to define it, enclose it in a couple of words, jot it down in a notebook and then throw it away in some dusty, old, termite-infested cabinet.

The metamorphosis is quick and the shades are beaucoup. Love is too big a word. Its canvas has grown over the centuries; adorned with millions of strokes and now it has become impossible to comprehend what the artist wanted it to be. It is that pain which the patient is unable to point out exactly from where it originates. It’s a venom and the only cure available is the venom itself and not in its attenuated state. It takes you out from the dregs only to throw you right back.

Perhaps the entire beauty and ugliness of love lies in the mystery which surrounds it.