Vee once quoted to me a line from a book called “Instance on the Number Three: “I wonder if it really matters who you love,” Bridget wondered, “It’s that you love that counts, isn’t it?”
I’m in love again. It is somewhat different this time. No more loud thudding of African drumbeats. No more absent-mindedness of forgetting to eat or not being able to sleep. No more of that.
This one is set apart by a strange warmth that begins from the toes and noiselessly and unhurriedly rises up to the body till it reaches every nerve ending; like steam rising from a hot asphalt road when it rains. It reminds me to eat so we can talk and be comfortable. It reminds me to sleep so I can work effectively yet have him fill all the gaps of time when I don’t think about work. It doesn’t allow me to make rash decisions but it allows me to be sensible and I don’t have to be reminded that I am that. This one makes me glow instead of fly. This one makes me long for and not ache for – hehehe – and I think that’s a good thing.
Yet it also challenges me. Not to observe what I’m capable of, but gives me an introspection of identifying what would make me happy and move me towards that direction. Isn’t that what this blog is all about? That never-ending search for bliss and where to find it? I no longer feel provincial. I’m even allowing myself the opportunity of risks. I am anxious but somehow, I’m not afraid. They’ve become two separate words with different meanings. Of course it’s too early to judge this relationship. We have yet to hit rocky ground. But I hope for a sense of maturity and looks like I will not be disappointed.
Maybe it’s because I’m getting old. Maybe it’s because I‘m too weary to ran after passions. I think it’s time that passions should run after me, and I walk leisurely waiting for it to catch up. And I’m in no hurry. I can feel it gaining ground bit by bit but with great certainty. (picture Daniel Day Lewis chasing Madeline Stowe - in rocky mountain with waterfall - in the movie, The Last of the Mohicans – violin strings building in loud crescendo as background - LOL)
So I have stopped anticipating African drumbeats. That’s definitely a good thing. I’m beginning to like the slow steady rhythm, the rustic sound of plucked strings of guitar and the squeaking reverb it makes when string and fingers get rubbed together. It is soothing - and cozy - and tender - and kind - and comfortable ... and it warms the heart. And it’s not running away. Strange. I find myself sighing a lot more - the kind you make when you finally reach home after a long journey.
Sigh. The Viking loves me. And I love him. sigh sigh sigh.