All this raw, crazy beating madness, that lives a life parallel to the calm composed outside. There's a million cells and a million thoughts rushing through veins, and yet through some mysterious power it holds ground in them all, ever present, ever persistent.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere, they are in each other all along, says Rumi.
Pregnant with each other's presence, a chest swollen up and full of love, we travel. We take each other by the waist, through each step. We are already experiencing each other’s worlds, just unaware that we are in the thick of a beautiful forest together, but alone. These goose bumps that travel through my skin, each time I close my eyes are just your fingers embracing my soul.
Lovers are in each other all along, he says.
I came to know love through time, a discovery I continue to make each day. It was an achingly beautiful song heard. Listened to patiently, word for word, hurt for hurt. Romanticised madness aside, we learn that we carry a madness for the other. Not madness, in the truest sense of the word, but madness in the matter of choice. Over and over, given the choice, I would choose this madness with you.
Over and over.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere, he says.
How many countless steps have we taken, unknowingly through each other, have you thought? This silent love that moves where I move, touching what I touch. I leave our imprints wherever I go. There are traces of you in places you haven’t even set foot on, is that not a bewildering thought?
Whether we be or we don’t, the beauty remains in the truth that we already are.
© Sneha Singh 2016
