It's a short story, this.

He was waiting for her at the car, looking like he meant business. She walked out of her house, smiled at him and said Hi. He just nodded.

Strike One.

They drove to the destination. He ordered the drinks. They lit cigarettes. She talked animatedly about her day. He looked around. She swayed to the music that played. He looked down in his drink. She played with her hair, he played with his phone. She excused herself to the bathroom.

Strike Two.

She came back to the table. He asked her something, she explained. He stormed out. She followed. They sat in the car, he drove in silence. She wept. Her face was full of tears, he said harsh things. He slapped her across the face, she wept. He said this can't be love that he felt. She said, it must be love for he can't find another who would feel this way. He drove off. She walked home.

Strike Three.

End of story?
or
Circle of life?

There is a lot of things that we learn the hard way. The boundless pleasures of life aren't experienced when you expect them. Instead, they materialize when you need them.
The question is- what happens when the need coincides with the expectation? The answer- magic.

We spend most of our lives complaining about how things never turn out how we want them to. Stop for a second, think about it. Open yourself to the possibility of a bigger picture. There is one. One beyond every pragmatic thought that has ever crossed your insipid mind. Beyond your realm of comprehension. One doesn't have to be religious to understand the power of faith. One doesn't have to fold their hands, bow their heads or kneel on the ground to indulge in faith. At one point or another, we all make the mistake of leaving it up to faith. And that's when all the realities of life seem to melt into a beautiful kaleidoscope.

We define the most abstract experiences. Love, hate, anger, jealousy,greed, pain, hurt, betrayal,. What do we know of them? We just know that those are things that one is supposed to experience at some time or the other. They are all part of a routine that has been programmed into our brain. It's only a matter of time, when it happens. When the balance beam shifts from the usual, when our faith is stirred, we experience these feelings. The most we take out of it, whatever we take out of only teaches us to have more faith. Invest more time towards introspection and search our souls for some more faith. An ounce more than what we had the time before. It goes on till the day we realize, we live no more. The ultimate test of faith. And even then, we hope for another day to live just so we can have a little more faith and make amends.

Us, a tiny speck in the lap of the universe. Faith, the remote control to all the beginning and the end. There is such beauty in this breakdown.

True. False.

Truth.
It is a clever concept that challenges my sanity and sanctity at every step. It is one of those things that the more you think you understand, another level appears. It is an illusion of completeness yet one of those things that make you so empty from the inside, that your heart just floats around in your body, with no destination or purpose.
The truth is often measured by the opinion and compliance of others. It is indeed a relative concept except very few will actually admit that. That's the truth about truth. It's a little funny, if you think about it. How we keep chasing this one word trying to fulfill it down to the last letter, although, none of us really know what it stands for. What good is such a virtue? Seems like such a waste. In the pursuit of verity, we lose ourselves, ever thought of that? How many times have we altered our behavior in order to adjust to what the truth claims?
I think truth is a vestigial virtue. Something that was valid in the days of the great Mahatma Gandhi and his ideal world. In the real world, truth has no place. Not amongst friends, lover, family. No one. Every one is out to protect themselves and keep their names intact. Not willing to get their hands dirty for something as atomic as the truth. Ha!
Now, that is the truth.

Defending the truth is not something one does out of a sense of duty or to allay guilt complexes, but is a reward in itself.

My glasses broke. Again. I am blind for the moment, and as I write, I am sticking my nose to the keyboard, darting my eyes from the monitor screen to the keypad, every 5 seconds.
I wear contact lenses but I was too lazy to wear mine today, and so I'm blind.
It's uncomfortable beyond reason but I like the discomfort, gives me a better understanding of the gift of sight. My doctor says I should get Lasik surgery, I'm in the perfect bandwidth of screwed up vision for that kind of thing. Perfect somewhere.
Ironic how my disability is a perfection in itself. Ha! In some parallel universe it's probably good luck, maybe I would be too.
A few tests proved that I have of what they psychologists say Borderline Personality Disorder and 4 sister disorders. I think the test results made me cry, though I don't quite remember, it could've been a dream.
It makes me happy to know that my disorders are the reason I'm the way I am and not some congenital malfunction. Its independent of anything of what my household is like. That's cool. Makes me different. I like it.
See, it's simple, the little joys of life are all that I need. It doesn't take much to make me smile. A tickle, a stare or if I'm lucky a hug. All it takes.
Simple, Isn't it?
My head hurts now, from all the back and forth and I think my ears are bleeding. For reasons that shall be stated at another time.
This is the best I can do.
All I have is out here. And out there.
An open book, pages are fluttering around waiting to be ripped off the spine of the book.
Take a shot at it, it's an exhilarating feeling.

Go on.

Defeat.

'I am sorry' - she whispers... Extending a pallid corpse-like hand.Bone white fingers seeking, to grasp him.In supplication, to stroke his satiny skin.Perhaps to tousle an ebony curl or two.'I am sorry,' - she repeats.'I have failed you.'

He ignores her as if she were a ghost.She looks like one.A ghost of her former glory.A mockery of that bubbling fount of youth he remembers.He desired her then, both he and she know that.Desired her when she was vibrant, golden-haired.Plump with the jucies of living.

'I am sorry' - she tries again.Her fingers almost manage to bestow their tender caress.But he shies away, flinches from her as if she were Death herself.He does not want her apology.Does not care - it is too late.She failed, failed, failed...

She is beautiful no longer.Beautiful she is, but not to him.He does not see the beauty in her mournful eyes.Those sorrowing windows of earthy brown.Nor does he see it in her feathery tresses.Soft and light as thistledown, a dark chocolate brown.All that is not gold does not glitter for him.Nor is her pallid skin enough to entice.It is the epidermis of a wilted flower.Or a phantom.No pulse can he detect there, nor does he see.The frantic beating of her heart.Like a caged bird trying to flee its cage.And fly to him on silken wings of shadow.

'I am sorry' - she tries one last time.But he is already gone.His back is turned and he strides towards a distant light.The gleam of an opened door waiting to admit him.And swing shut on her gaunt white face.She sighs, sorrows, sobs.Crumples to her scarred white knees.And bows her head - she admits defeat

She was on her knees... Sobbing... Sobbing so deeply that it hurt her chest. Her face was completely covered in tears, her vision was so blurred that she could barely see his outline. Him. He was standing right in front of her watching as she begged for him to explain what had happened.
He saw this pathetic creature before him... He had once held her in his arms as he told her that he loved her, and promised her the world. He had once looked into her eyes and seen nothing but pure undying love.
But then, just as quickly as he had brought her that happiness, the love she thought might never end, he took it away.
He looked at her, sitting there, blankly. He acted like they had never met, and he didn't even acknowledge the pain that he had caused her. He just sat there like a stone, saying not a word to her pleas.
She looked up at him, her eyes red, her face blotchy. She knew she wasn't going to get an answer. She got up, looked him in the eyes, and saw nothing. She suddenly felt cold. The love that she had once seen in his eyes was gone. A memory that, from his expression now, was hard to recall.
This was the end. All that they had gone through, all that they had said, was gone.
She wished at this point that she could be like him, able to forget everything without a second thought, without any pain whatsoever.
She looked down, turned around, stood up straight and walked away.

Uplifting.