A Monologue (When They Stop Speaking Of Love.)

By Vedashree B N

Sitting under clouds always gets me thinking. It's the slow gradual drift, too slow to miss your eyes. If you look close enough, you can see the floating, even.

I think about almost everything. Every thing.

Lately, about love. Why?

Well, the whole world seems to be obsessed with it.

It's like that distant galaxy everyone knows it's there, but exists light years away.

Singers in your ears, stories in phrases, movies in frames, scream and whisper and cry and sing and jump and swim and discourse over love. Just on love. Love that. Love this. Love isn't that. Love is this. Love in forms. Love in shapes and sizes. Love cares. Love grows. Love hurts. Love lives. Love. Love isn't just a word anymore. It's everything it's not. The love you have and the love I want. 

They keep on going for centuries, speaking of love. It's this overflowing river everyone seems to be drowning happily in.

Is it because that it's a cloth everyone has, everyone wears, cut into different dresses. Some wearing it, some wrapping themselves with it, some using it to look good.

Is it really because love is the answer?

Isn't love a question.

Love? Love.

No, it's always,

Love ? Love?

All our lives.

Just -

"Love? Love?"

We never stay, but believe strongly that love does.

Oh the clouds have passed by. Blue sees me.

Love, god, dreams, tangerines, seasons.

Overly used and churned and chewed.

We don't stop, for they never do.

Every poet is amused. Every singer is feeling it.

Every maker sees a scene in it.

It's just there like an art in museum, there's nothing you can do about it.

It's already treasured.

It is one common crossroad.

We're all walking , often meeting at this crossroad.

We greet each other, speak of it, and then just leave, as if, there's something else to go in search for.

We don't stop, because we don't know when.

Later, we come home, speak of it with everyone.

I stay quiet. Watching.

Watching how we melts into they.

They keep speaking of it. 

When they stop speaking of love, that's when I'd love to start. 

Oh wait.

By Vedashree B N