The idiosyncrasies of love

Missing someone is so strange. It gives you a farrago of emotions, ranging from a terrible unrest to a lasting calmness in lieu of a fleeting hope that the isolation will be over soon. I wonder how intensely you must love a person that when you part, even temporarily, a sudden paranoia grasps you by the throat. How profoundly can a woman love a man that the fear of death, of effervescent hearts, natural calamities and even a fear as trivial as changing seasons can occlude your breathing, hinder your living? I had once read somewhere that the way a man loves is different than a woman. A man is quick to fall in love and he either falls deeply in love or not; like an all or none situation. But for a woman in love, it’s anything but binary. It’s an expedition she embarks upon, one day at a time. Somedays in love, she delves deeper and deeper into an abyss of bittersweet mantle of love and in others, she holds herself back, lest her fragile heart is grappled with again. She waits quietly in anticipation until the man gives her the conviction about his love and then she enters this limbo. It’s like a hypnotic spell, it’s like free fall in zero gravity where time ceases itself, ironically in an eternal contemplation of whether all of this actually exists beyond the figment of her imagination or it's just about to end with a ‘thud’ of reality. And in this limbo of love, she loses herself, ounce by ounce integrating into the soul of her lover, I cannot tell consensually or not (but uncontrollably for sure), until all of her being belongs to the man in question and she is an emotional destitute at his hands. I cannot vouch for how a man feels, for I have never felt like a man. But for a woman in love, I feel the throbbing at her every pulse, the awry flutters of the heart, the loss of control over oneself in slow love. Love comes in waves and washes away a woman’s insecurities, incompetences, and intangibilities. I admit I feel her. I admit it has been love all this while tugging at the strings of my being. But,it’s too late to pick up the clutter my heart has been, it’s too late to retreat the battlefield between love and logic. I am in love, left at the mercy of a man’s whim, again. And how this little roguery has brought me to a roller-coaster of ecstasy and melancholia. Such are the idiosyncrasies of love.