The Rhythm Of Love

That place you get to and mutter “I've heard it all before” with a deep knowing look on your face. A look some would translate as wisdom, others pain and some arrogance. But you’re past caring.

All sorts of love proposals, all sorts of carefully composed words, and sophisticated sentences that aim to sound convincing. Portraying a goody bag of emotions, so deep, so real, so false, so obviously deceitful, so aggressive… so blunt.

And so you hear them so much that the words, whenever they are directed at you blur into a pile of nothingness… you’re no longer moved, you can’t wait for the theatrics of professing to end, so you can finish up painting your nails or staring into space and wondering what it’s like to pull out the hair sticking out the nose of the person sitting across from you, because sentences like “ so tell me about you” makes you want to haul your phone across the room, if only it’ll keep the voice away, but you don’t, because it’s your phone, bought with your money, and suffering the unwanted advances wouldn't pay for a new phone... well that’s unless you let those who try to buy your emotions do just that, only to reveal to them that the deal didn't go through, as you let them down via the expensive phone they bought for you. Life isn't fair is it?

You’re desperate to feel a stirring deep in your heart; you’re desperate for that string within to recognize a cord played in yet another voice, yet another mail or instant message with carefully thought out words… but nothing, the proverbial butterfly eludes your stomach.
And so the nice, fine, wealthy, enlightened, funny and almost born again one goes in the pile of blurring nothingness.

Till that one person comes along, with not a word of poetry, with not a silhouette of your dreams and fairytale imagination, with no enchanted love talk, bearing no gifts to hand over in exchange for your love.
With no desperate attempt to paint your heart with meaningless words, with no play act…
With no trying…
All he does is be your friend, your best friend.

And in that rhythmic walk in friendship, where pretense is thrown under the bus, where you‘re dared to be yourself, where beauty isn't blinding and making common sense redundant, you find yourself stumbling and eventually falling and opening a window for the love bug that’s been impatiently waiting on the ground to bite you, and the sting awakens your flat lined heart.

Your heart responds to the cord that plays a song you desperately want to dance to, even when you’re clueless as to how to move to the beat.
But you move all the same, because the sound is so good, you can’t afford not to move to the rhythm, not moving will drown you in that place of blurry oblivion… You move to the sound so good, even if you have no idea how, because it speaks of all things beautiful, a beauty that is beyond your face or his heart, one where you skip all the theatrics of declaring love, where you skip all the skipping around and going through the ritual of being coy and hiding feelings and not saying what you mean and playing games with emotions….
Then you do a tiptoe dance around this new beat, hoping the heels of your dancing shoes doesn't rip a hole in it, hoping it never stops playing, hoping you’re never numb again, and back to the place where every word of wooing is drained into a hole of blurry oblivion.