Purely hypothetical...

So I ran into ‘her’.
And like all women who’ve ever worn that particular pronoun in the history of written literature… I almost wished I hadn’t.
And like every time I’ve “almost” wished I hadn’t… Well, there’s a story here too.

There she is… sitting across the table not five feet away. Less than three strides for the average disciple. Two if you’re as tall as me.
There are people talking. Every now and then she smiles; and it feels another ripple has passed over the surface of eternity. And as much as I think they messed up the darn punch line, it seems I can’t help but smile too. I wish they get the next one right... I do so hate it when she stops with that smile.

My heart craves what is only the caress of her gaze, but I now look away. I’m much too afraid she’ll catch me staring. Leaving me too embarrassed ever to be able to tell her that now that I had found her, I knew everything was going to be alright.
The sun would rise again tomorrow. The dang sunflowers would point in just the right direction. And that maybe, just maybe, one day as the sunlight would be streaming in through half open windows, I’d brush aside the stray hair that crept onto her face and wake her up with a kiss on her cheek that half spelt “I love you” and half “I love how you yawn”.

She glances my way once, as if to thank me for my words. I keep looking away. Seems I have not the mind to accept such thanks. I only gave her what was hers in the first place. And then she smiles again. It begins in her eyes, like all smiles worth telling someone about.
Seems they were working on their punch lines, after all.

I think about getting up and talking to her. It can’t be that difficult. In spite of what they say, it is a good sign if your legs turn to jelly and your mind turns to pudding. If she understands me the right way (and there is no other way), she’ll know she herself is my poetry made manifest. The “ba-ba-black-sheep” that I’ll end up doing such a spirited rendition of can probably just be written off to... creative differences.

I hesitate. I would need something to start a conversation with. Women have not been known to take kindly to opening lines about the annual sugar production of Cuba.

Perhaps something to do with how she embodies that which is beauty… serenity one could spend a lifetime trying to describe and yet words would not suffice.
No. Too long.
Perhaps a simple “Hi” would do. Maybe that’s all that is needed to open doors.
No. Too simplistic.
Maybe I simply recite the alphabet in my baritone. Let pheromones and good intentions take care of the rest.
No. Too clichéd.

So, well, I simply walk up to her and say…

…and we haven’t stopped talking since.
(Most of it about things like the coffee output of Brazil. Told you Cuba doesn't work).

One step back, two steps forward...

A friend just broke up with someone she’d been with for 11 years. I don’t mind telling you that’s a significant multiple of the total amount of time I’ve spent with anyone (while suppressing genocidal tendencies or otherwise). Not that the guy was any good, mind you. The first time I met him he started making fun of her in front of me. And he cheated on her. And he was going bald. And I think she always laughed a little too much at the token “I bet he was terrible in bed too” jokes.
Still, when I talked to her last, she was in tears. She’d been that way for the last month.
Of course, it’s not surprising. I mean, 11 years? Most people don’t get 11 good days between them, try as they will. (At this point, kindly insert your condescension about my maturity in relationships into an orifice of your choice)

When I started this, it was going to be about exes. Those people you can invoke in every single prayer; be it to the God you like best (available at leading pantheons everywhere); or the forces of death and destruction that populate the blog of a 13 year old these days.

However, in doing my research (Facebook quizzes), I thought it’d have a little more meaning if I made it about that person who everyone hates and still wants to be. While I know you’d simply love to read a little bit more about Daler Mehendi, I’d like to make this about the person who moves on. Or perhaps, moving on. The sense and maybe the blasphemy of it.

Moving on, not just from the relationships that didn’t work out, but from all those other things too. Things that have made you cry and wish that you hadn’t thrown out that last soft toy. Big things that nobody else seemed to get. And the little things that just added up.

So, between you and me, I know that it must hurt.
I know it must feel like you’ve walked barefoot on gravel for miles on end; leaving behind footprints deep and bloody enough that one knows you must’ve been walking on your toes the entire distance.
I know that sometimes all that remains feasible is to just tell yourself to stop feeling anything at all.
Finally, I know that what hurts more is the question of what “could’ve been”. The question of finding destinations down paths not taken, of paths that now lay broken. (I’ve read your blog. You know what I mean.)

But I also know that underneath all the stifled laughter and the self applied “Cynic” tags, there’s still the idealist of 10, maybe 15 years ago. Someone who just didn’t know any better, and ironically enough, was better off for it.
Someone who was made happy by looking at kids who smiled, who danced when he didn’t know how to, who looked forward to finishing the box of chocolates so that he could buy another one.
In fact, if this someone was anything like me, I’m fairly certain all he wanted was to walk into a garden of Cherry Blossoms and watch shadows get longer.

As it stands, your pain is your own. It always has been. But it doesn’t have to be. Not for much longer.
Reach out if you can. There are always people willing to listen. Sometimes, there’re even people willing to help. If statistics are anything to go by, someone has effed’ up just like you in the past. And that nobody should let Sreesanth bowl.
Make bad jokes. It keeps you on the right side of sane. Plus, it gives the people around you the benefit of the Temporary Insanity plea at their murder trial.
Give someone a hug. I'm sure you know lots of intensely huggable people. The fact that some of them carry pepper spray really shouldn’t stop you.
Most importantly, remind yourself of the people you want to be happy for. And of those who’d rather share cheesecake than see you happy. (I find the latter helped a lot more. But I’ve led something of a sheltered existence)

Whatever you do, just keep in mind that you stand as a warrior. And as this warrior you fight demons. Demons that will not relent. Demons that will bleed a river before they yield an inch.

The warrior thinks of the times of peace. He wishes he didn’t have to fight. He is tempted by the prospect of going back to glowing mornings when the dew has not yet left. Of closing his eyes in the middle of battle to think of Cherry Blossoms shedding in a shower of pink and white. In an autumn of browns and yellows, punctuated by greens.

Yet he knows he must kill, but knows not the weight of the sword he must lift. And as it happens, the sword is heavy. It’s easier to drop than to lift. And the fight is easier to run away from than to actually stay and fight.

It seems that even when the solution is by far, the easiest thing about the whole problem, it’s the sticking to it that remains the most difficult. But then again, it also is the most important thing in the world. The warrior did plant the Cherry blossoms himself.

So lift up the sword and try it on for size. They tell me it was made for you. And they’re usually right, even when they aren’t.

The past is right there in your head. Come back to it when you feel like it (or knock yourself hard enough on your head that you don’t have to). When you do, I recommend you stand at a window and give long meaningful glances to the world outside with a glass of Sprite in your hand. But in the meantime, look at the present.
It wants you to look at it too. And give it a compliment or two. It’s a little insecure like that. But take my word for it, it makes for a great date.