Taking the baton from Ramya over at Words and Me, and holding it high here!
How can you love a sheet of paper whose ink mirrors the thoughts in your mind?
How can you love a story that is told to everyone, but strikes an intimate chord only with you?
How can you love a character who is merely fictional and removable at the hands of its literary God, and yet feel an overwhelming sadness when luck doesn’t favour him?
It’s a simple answer: it’s love.
You don’t need to understand love, you just have to feel it.
I remember reading a quote about love somewhere. I don’t remember the exact words, but the gist of it stays in my mind all the time: ‘If you want to know if someone loves you, ask them why they love you. Someone who really loves you, will never have a grammatically perfect sentence or a straightforward way to describe why they love you.’
So basically, the sleazy, “user” types will write pages and pages about why they love you, and will never mean a single ink spot of it in their mind of minds. (Of course, not ‘heart of hearts’. They are “user” types, remember?)
I know, it’s grossly judgmental to categorise lovers like that. Maybe your lover of more than many years tells you daily why he /she loves you, and still hasn’t left your side in all the adverse times. Hey, I get it. Exceptions to the “love rules” happen all the time.
Ugh, this is so not straightforward.
I’m hoping you’ve understood from all this ‘beating around the red bush” that I’m trying to avoid saying what I really feel about my blog, because I’m scared I’ll jinx it.
Maybe I’ll scream from the highest hills that I love writing and I’ll never ever be away from it, and the next day, I’ll have no internet connectivity. “Because,” my blog will sweetly say, “if you love me, you’ll love me for better or for worse. Now come home soon, and share some supercalifragilisticexpialidocious story on me.”
Maybe I’ll write a love ballad dedicated to my blog, and the next day all the stats will wipe away. “Because,” my blog will lovingly say, “If you love me, you’ll love me for richer or for poorer. The stats never mattered, did they?”
Maybe I’ll be down with a bad case of writer’s cramps, and my blog will start reminding me that I haven’t posted in seven days. “Because,” my blog will say, with a sweet eucalypty voice, “you did say you’d love me through sickness and through health. Now go wear an ice pack and start writing!”
Maybe I’ll be sitting all alone, with a book to read and hot chocolate to drink, and my blog will start bleeping notifications like as if it’s on a WhatsApp group spree. “Because,” my blog will say, almost sounding like a demanding spouse, “you said you’ll be home early tonight, honey. I’ve already kept the rough draft, titles and keywords ready for you! Come home soon, or the food for your thought will get cold.”
Alas, maybe when I’m on my deathbed, a comfortable sixty years later, my blog will start showing me memories of all the wonderful thoughts I’ve written about. Maybe it will make me cringe with all my stupid thoughts I’ve shared with the world. Maybe it will make me laugh, cry, weep all through my way to the writers heaven. Maybe it will beg and plead for me to never leave.
And maybe, just maybe, my blog will stay on forever, a memory of my happy life. A life with the most devoted love ever.
I love my blog, my dear blog.
Passing the baton on to G., over at Chai Aur Biscuit!