I do remember falling in love at 14 with a dark-eyed pretty girl. I remember smiling to myself, full of plans to propose to her when I'd get older, thinking about how I'd talk her out of the idea, or desire, of having 12 children. I blame Karan Johar.
But immeasurable distance and arguments over nonsensical Bollywood films had taken their toll; she faded into incapacity. This is the only other time I can recall as being anywhere near the idea of romance in my life.
I remember gloating around my friends, vaunting how I was above their petty love-affairs and wrist-cuttings, which, at best, lasted for a year. I was content single, comfortable in the indisputable logic that 'single' was not synonymous with 'alone'.
Romantic inexperience stretched on for four more years and then bam, you told me you were an interest(ed/ing, both apply) romantic.
(Unmentionable conversations in the negative space).
I have a love song blasting in my ears and each lyric is registering. This is why I resent you: for this introduction to romantic meanings.
I resent you for taking me by a reassuring, warm hand into this goddamned territory (literally God damned!), pronouncing me unqualified for I was too much of a newborn (snort, really) and deserting me unfed.
I refuse to re-birth. I am too weak to be pushed out. I will not wail; I choose to remain blue for a while more.
Eventually, everyone must (re)surface.
Remember, resentment is never synonymous with hatred.
Words not said to your face have much more life, unmet by refusal and rejection.
God damn disbelief (place your commas as per preference).
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