Gubraithian Fire..

I should blog more, no?

2011-08-18T02:01:00.004+05:30

There's been a lapse in the server connection between my mind-blogger and web-blogger.

I'm trying to re-establish the connection.

Meanwhile, I'd like to distract you with this brilliant gem I found somewhere on Facebook -

Happy Birthday Shwetu

2011-07-03T05:27:00.003+05:30

I'm sorry, I can't tell you how much.

I'm so late, that you might hate me forever.

I really meant to call, but I was embarrassed and so mad at myself that I couldn't think of a grand enough gesture to make it up to you.

I don't have many friends really, I can't afford to lose the few I have.

Shwetu, I love you, I'm sorry. You'll come here, we'll meet and everything will be fine.

Hope this year and all the years turn out to be amazing and magical.

Nitwit Oddment Blubber Tweak

PS: Maggie,traitorous worm, just you wait.

2011-05-07T00:00:00.000+05:30

Oh My God.

A Red Pulse

2011-02-13T08:06:00.003+05:30

DISCLAIMER: Personal opinion. Take it or leave it.

There is a certain power in being alone. A calm that enables you in handling situations that will perhaps never come if you are dependent on somebody. A quiet development of inner strength that will slowly decay the moment you surrender to the giddy delight of enjoying somebody else's company a bit too much. If you are alone, you can deflect pain to the maximum extent possible because only those who are close enough hold the power to hurt you. Don't let anybody step inside that inner sanctum from where pain is the only thing that is pulsating.

No, this isn't a bitter rant, rather something that I believe in and the only philosophy that I can place my trust in. I don't see any sense in letting yourself willingly falling prey to that demon that is best kept at bay. I'm not saying love doesn't exist. It does. Not for everyone though. And that is the truth. Don't fool yourselves otherwise.

PS: I'm sorry for being so harsh.

PPS: Happy Valentines Day!

The Force

2011-02-10T05:11:00.000+05:30

I'm 22 years old. So it is quite unreasonable to expect me to be unaffected by the arrival of a new pimple on the calm environs of my cheek. Stuff like this shouldn't be happening anymore. I'm out of that cursed age-zone for gods sakes!! So you would, of course forgive me for being violently angry and moody for the rest of the week.

In other news, this week was Superbowl week. Now, as my brother was trying to insinuate, I'm not turning into an American (although American football is sufficiently violent to engage me); my interest in this mega-event was the commercials. An unsaid piece of homework assignment, which I gladly did.

My vote goes to:

The tiny Darth Vader (which I think is a girl btw) was the most darling thing on television that night. This commercial as heavily advertised virally with a 1 minute version hitting the internet a week before Superbowl and garnering more than 14 million hits. Then, the same commercial aired during the game with a 30 second spot. Very smart.

Another commercial worth checking out:

A 2 minute long advertising spot during Superbowl. Daimler Chrysler shelled out heavy and have gained a very favorable response in-turn. Brilliant ad, featuring Eminem, with a Detroit-nostalgia thing about it.

Other ads I liked: Doritos, Sleepys and NFL

Oh, by the way, the Packers crushed the Steelers.

Why I Suck - Part 1

2011-01-21T12:25:00.000+05:30

So get this. Some of you may not have realized it so far, but I am perhaps the clumsiest and the most disaster prone person in existence. I know!! A shocker as it may be, it is an accurate representation of reality, my friends. A phenomenon making itself glaringly obvious in the light of present circumstances that can be summarized in two words: I Suck.

Some of you (very few, I admit) might be concerned as to why one is being so harsh to oneself, but you won't after you have been presented with sufficient evidence of one's appalling lack of basic competence in matters as simple as - lets say - walking.

We had a tiny furry visitor who we call Roxy. Roxy, the mouse. As much as we love him/her/his child/her child's nephew and are courteous enough to leave the dishes dirty and every available surface littered with unfinished food and trash we decided to kill him/her/his child/her child's nephew. My roommate skipped her way to CVS and resourcefully got sticky mousetraps that are reportedly very effective in luring the mice into its sticky trap. It seemed like a lot of fun in the beginning and we put it in all sorts of places which we deemed 'strategic' and put bits of precious peanut butter and cheese and salad dressing on it. All fine and dandy till the trap actually fulfills its purpose in life and guess what - you guessed it right - IT GOT ME!

Not once, not twice, but THRICE!

I'm a good sport you know, I cracked up the first time too. I'll admit it, it was funny to see a female adult hobbling with a mouse trap stuck to her foot and crashing into the wall as if to go out with a bang. Still, I laughed with everyone. Granted.

Second time, no one was around, I didn't laugh all that much.

Third time, decidedly not funny. It happened 15 minutes before I was leaving for my last class of the semester. Again, as you all might have gleaned, I'm also not the most punctual person in the world. I have almost never made it to class on time. So this was not the sodding time for a sticky mouse pad to deposit itself on the nethermost region of my anatomy. Result, it took so much time to get that thing off, I was 30 minutes late to class and this time Prof. wasn't very understanding. That isn't even the awkward part. The awkward part is when he asked me why I am late. You know how you always thought 'dog ate my homework' to be the lamest excuse ever? Try 'I got stuck on a sticky mouse pad in the closet while putting my boots on'. Not all that believable. But it was the truth, so I delivered it. Via email of course. Could not bring myself to say it in person. Yea, even I was embarrassed. That bad.

How I managed to land those cursed little stinkers, don't ask. It was as if some sort of invisible string pulled me into it every single time.
If mice have a mice-youtube, I'm probably on it with some 600,000 hits and all of them laughing their tiny little arses off. Its probably titled - 'Stupid female human's pathetic attempt to trap us and failing every single time and not learning from her mistakes. Stupid female human'.

Rats.

On this side of the new year

2011-01-11T02:17:00.002+05:30

Things are different on this side of the new year.
Not just for me, but for everyone around me.
But this blog is about me, and I'm pretty much a narcissist, so I'll talk about me.

Things I didn't think I was capable of doing, have been done.
Promises that I made on the other side, I've broken.
People whom I'd never thought I would hurt, I've injured.
Places I didn't think I could reach, I've reached.
Felt new highs, sunk to new lows. Sometimes, really low.

I'm sorry about most of it, I feel like trash half the time, but I'll live.

As I've remarked earlier, everything has an expiry date.

All you can hope is you haven't been poisoned by it.

So, this post is cryptic, most of you won't understand it. That's fine.

Morning Pages

2010-11-27T21:20:00.000+05:30

This is a very rare 10:30 am post. Seeing as how at this particular time I'm either in class or fast asleep.

I might just be sleep blogging now, you never know. But isn't this diary just delightful? This could be such a perfect example of morning pages, a concept we try to implement in our creative class.

Morning pages is essentially something Julia Cameron came up with and talked about in her book called the 'the Artist's way'. So Cameron tells us to seek our creatiivity by a pointless process (her words, not mine) called the Morning Pages which are essentially the first words that come to your mind and have been groggily transferred on to a paper. Later, at some point in life when you choose to read this and giggle at your sleep-deprived mind's scribblings, you will discover great things. Or so she supposes. Only way to find out is to try it.

I invite you to try it and tell me, my creative class, Prof Vogel and Julia Cameron how it goes. Or you can just look at the pretty picture and go back to sleep.

Fall Colors

2010-11-24T08:06:00.002+05:30

Life's like this.

Red.

Yellow.

Orange.

Burnt Sepia.

Golden.

Burgundy.

Jaded Green.

Copper.

Magenta.

Crimson.

I wish there was an app in my brain that synced tiny blog posts directly from my brain to blogger.

MindBlogger - That's what it should be called.

Amidst all those colors, my blog has been graying out to an ominous black.

Like the weather in the glorious city of Boston which is freezing its way from fall to winter.

In the three months that I've been here I've been witness to almost three weather types - summer, fall and winter. Of course one could argue that -2 degrees could hardly be called winter in New England, I can already see little kids skating in the Frog Pond.

I'm gonna try that soon. And post the gory details of my embarrassing failure, don't you worry.

Classes are great. Work's awesome. Life's been sucked dry out of me, but I reportedly look better so I won't fight it. I sleep for 6 hours on an average as opposed to 12 hours in my previous life and that could be a problem if I had time to worry about it.

I've adapted. I've stopped converting INR to USD, 5 degrees is relatively warm weather, working for 10 hours non-stop means today is a good day and Coke is water.

Also: I've spelled colour as color and grey as gray (!!)

Special shout out to: Ketan Deshpande, Megha Roy and Karan whatever-your-last-name-is.

GMCA 2011

2010-09-22T06:17:00.000+05:30

This is my fabulous class. I actually have fun there. Which in itself is so astounding that the mind boggles.

I can't even begin to explain how hectic life is right now. But I've never, never had so much fun. Even out of school. I've made awesome friends who cook for me. What more could I ask for?

The faculty is mind-blowing. I'm not going to go through the name-taking process here. Apart from William Anderson, Katie Youn, Cathy Waters and Thomas Vogel. The classes are painful, fun, hair ripping and thrilling stuff. We are expected to inhale unhealthy amounts of academic material, but I suppose its all a part of a grad student's life.

[I also have a job by the way. Like you care. But it pays. So there. In your face.]

I love Boston. It's amazing. It's like a living, breathing gothic revival experience. The best part of my day is this place called Reflection Point. It's 3 minutes away from my home, in the middle of the city and totally surreal.

Contaminating the water at Reflection Point

Bath time at the fountain in Reflection Point

A view of a beautiful church (of science(!!)) around the Reflection Point

So I guess, by now you've realized about my love affair with this place. Winter is going to drain it dry, but still, small pleasures.

I know its difficult to wrap your head around me being busy, but you have to start believing this guys.

But not all has changed. I still reach class late almost every single day. :D

I'm alive.

2010-09-02T01:49:00.000+05:30

@Iwasaki Library

For those of you who were wondering, that is.
My phenomenal clumsiness has semi-injured me a couple of times but death hasn't beckoned yet.

There are so many Indians where I live, it's ridiculous. Nobody sleeps till 3 in the morning and any point of time you open the door, you can see people out in the hallways talking in Hindi.
Which is actually a good thing. It's like a small slice of home, oz the moment I get to college it's all International.

I should go study now. Considering thats why I'm here. (I know, I know!)

I'll post better when I have a phone, a laptop, internet and a pillow.
Till then, see ya!

I'm Shipping Up to Boston

2010-08-22T11:21:00.002+05:30

Even though this Celtics soundtrack by the Dropkick Murphys has been a permanent fixture on my mobile media list for over a year now, it held little meaning for me.
It was a great number for an hybrid tap dance and my ringtone for months but it did not have any particular significance really.

Now, 5 days away from shipping myself to Boston its the theme song to my life again.
I'll be joining Emerson College, Boston from September 1. Flying out to Boston on 28th.
Provided of course, that I don't die in these 5 days. Coz, nothing short of death is going to stop me from boarding that flight.

Having slogged so much for it (and a lot of slogging left to do) I never realized how fast it all happened. And now this happens to be my last weekend at home. I'm very excited and all that jazz, but as I hear my brother planning to take over my bed and cabinets I must honestly admit to being a little bummed out.

I've never lived alone, don't know how to cook, have never done my laundry, can just about do dishes sloppily, and don't know the first thing about... anything. Yep, this is going to be so much fun!

With hardly any money, a lamentable skill set, high amount of ignorance and insurmountable brash over-confidence; Emerson College, here I come!

PS: Goodbye people, next post shall be from the other side of the world.

I'm A Picture, Twuckers!

2010-08-10T22:17:00.001+05:30

A picture speaks a thousand words.
So do I.
You make the connection.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Although, I'm working on that.

Nowadays, I stop speaking after 140 characters. I have to, otherwise my tongue starts sticking to the roof of my mouth automatically.

Also, I can't seem to process too many thoughts at the same time. I used to be quite capable of doing that, but now, every time that happens, a bunch of birds drop a fat whale on me. Bloody twuckers.

There is no point talking to my family anyway. I mean, I asked my brother whats trending and he gave me this weird look and got back to his homework. It's inexplicable I know, but if I'm feeling out of sorts with the current news situation my immediately look to my right as if there'll be a floating list that will help me out.

And don't even give me any witty jokes or comeback, I might just RT them with a smiley.

Life, overall, has become a playing field of hashtags. #GetWhatIMean?

Note: If you're not familiar with twitter this might seem like gobledegook to you. In that case, that is entirely your problem. Nobody is forcing you to read anyway. Get out of here.

Inception

2010-07-20T19:48:00.001+05:30

Ok, so here's the thing.
Inception happened. To me.
It should happen to you too. Should. Must.
That is all for now; I have temporarily lost normal, functional abilities.

Update: Maggie, who was my partner in this wonderful crime, has written a semi-orgasmic review thingie on the movie. Check it out here.

Update: It wasn't so much a movie, as an experience. And yes, you cannot afford to miss a single minute of this movie, so don't saunter in late with stupid excuses like pee and popcorn. And I'm not just telling you this because of the awesomeness, but because you won't understand anything otherwise.

doublethink

2010-07-09T19:42:00.002+05:30

It was like one of those camera tricks. Where the object of concern is in high definition and the rest is blurred artfully. But the eye is just a sophisticated biological camera, he mused. Or perhaps the other way round? He wondered how he could process so many thoughts at a time such as this. But his brain seemed to have compartmentalized itself (rather sub-compartmentalized). While a large part of it concentrated on the task at hand, another small part swatted at errant thoughts in a methodical fashion.
Quite suddenly a branch loomed up, he ducked, swerved, faltered a bit, but did not lose any speed. He raced through the wild, that beast wouldn't get away this time, he swore. He had disposed of the atlatl a long time ago, it only hindered his progress. He would conquer that life with his spear alone. He could sense the exhaustion of the beast rather than see it. The thought sent a rush of exhilaration through his body; the savage delight of out-running such a powerful beast gave him a familiar pleasure. He could never get used to this feeling, it had the ability to take him by surprise every single time.
The beast had cut himself, he could smell the blood; he sniffed greedily, his nostrils slightly flared. For a moment he was irritated by the injury. Claiming a flawed animal wouldn't be as sacred as claiming a whole animal. He wanted the first and last injury to be his, the single shaft in the gleaming body made by his spear. But he swatted the thought aside.
He was getting closer, the beast was slowing down. The air in front of him seemed to get clearer every second. He launched the spear and the beast stopped entirely. It was another of those camera tricks. A frozen frame, and then slow motion. He stood beside the animal, his chest heaving as he watched a life being siphoned away drop by drop. His hands were steady, but he couldn't stop his head from buzzing. Is this what God feels like, he wondered again.
The animal stopped twitching and lay still. The man finally dropped to his knees and pulled the spear out. Then he lifted his head to the heavens, let out a howl and started crying.

Who Told You, You're Allowed To Rain On My Parade?

2010-07-02T12:21:00.002+05:30

This is one of those songs that'll stay with you forever.

This ode is pretty late, but I realized I miss Glee with a surprising ferocity.

And as irritating as Rachel Berry is, you have to hand it to her; man oh man, she can sing!

This is quite possibly my favorite Glee performance (along with the Halo mashup and Don't Stop Believing).

There are two chief reasons for this:

Rachel Berry (Lea Michele)
The lyrics

This song has become something of an anthem for me right now. I must listen to it every morning at least once. The lyrics make so much sense to me right now, that it comes quite close to perfect. I feel like sitting certain people down and breaking into this number in front of them and rip them to pieces.

Also, you cannot help but marvel at the range this woman has. By the time she calls Mr Arnstein, you are grinning like a dazed moron and by the time she marches her band out, you have these goosebumps, it's inevitable! Every single time. And when she is finishing the song with the crescendo of 'dont rain on my parade' you are left wondering if her lungs are bigger than the Holy Kingdom of Jerusalem. I mean, such power!

Don't Rain On My Parade also happens to be one of those songs that you inadvertently imagine yourself singing. It's embarrassing, but admit it, it's true. You are out there, performing with her and suddenly there is no Rachel Berry, there is just you. You are giving this rousing performance and the audience is giving you a standing ovation, cheering and stamping but you don't hear it. You finally open your eyes after you finish the song, and realize that it isn't you. But it's okay. You still feel satisfied, a feeling of exultation, a sense of completion and the remnants of a contented smile. In your own world, you did it.

After all, who the hell are you to rain on my parade??

Go now, and Live

2010-06-25T15:13:00.001+05:30

Please click on the image to go to the original website I have borrowed it from.

From Durex, With Love

2010-06-21T13:07:00.000+05:30

This happens to be one of the most funniest things I've seen in a long time and that includes my dad doing a Michael Jackson number.

Spot on!!

I've borrowed this from Kaash, who reblogged it from Ennui.

Do check them out, they are sublimely cool.

Brainfreeze

2010-06-20T20:30:00.001+05:30

A rainy day conversation between Oneself, Himan and Maggie.
Continuous brainfreeze in a minor rainstorm and alternate espresso shots can lead to such outpourings of buckled emotion.

Himan: Ok, so I get the thing where a guy depends on his girl to let all his emotions out, somebody who would actually give a shit and listen to all his crap. But its ok man. I can store all the crap.

Mag: Yeah right. Wait till you get one.

Himan: Uh, what?

Me: She means, wait till you get into one relationship. You say this now, but once you get into this pattern where you become used to somebody taking all your shit, you'll never get over it. You will need to vent out all the time. You will need a girl, you won't be able to survive without one.

Mag: Its like this verbal diarrhea.

Me: Exactly.

Himan: So basically, what you're saying is, relationships are like drugs?! (A stellar example of abbreviated GIP or Ganja Induced Philosophies that Himan is famous for)

Me & Mag: YES!!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My quote for today:

'I'm so cheap, I'm priceless.'
- Me

Love In The Time Of Solitude

2010-06-17T20:08:00.001+05:30

There aren't many authors who know their way around paper as sensually as Gabo does.
He treats literature as his lover, almost.
You can see it in his rich narrative and the vibrant textures of his plots. The way he caresses the words and molds the characters, it is almost as if he has personally experienced every emotion of every character. Like they still live with him.

To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter. He had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell.
Love in the Time of Cholera

I don't know what draws me to Gabo's writing so powerfully. Maybe it is his home genre of Magical Realism (something shared by Salman Rushdie, my other favorite author) or the quality of not quite being real. The mystical touch, the earthy beauty.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close
One Hundred Years of Solitude

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, you are wonderful.

SCREW YOU BELLA!

2010-06-16T11:55:00.001+05:30

This one sooooo deserved a blog post.

Nobody needs you.

Not even them.

Fuck off.

Maggie, thanks for the tip.

2010-06-13T23:47:00.001+05:30

Everything has an expiry date. Everything.

The Napoleon Complex

2010-06-12T12:21:00.000+05:30

Napoleon Bonaparte or Napoleon I, was a military and political leader of France during the early 19th century. A great man, by all means. Ruthless dictator, superb administrator and grand master in political and military strategy, Napoleon was paralleled perhaps only by another European in the years to come.
A great man, by all means, but also very short. Nobody is still very sure about his height precisely; it might be anywhere between 5'2 - 5'6. Any how, this quality wasn't something he was very proud of. In fact, it is said that so put off was the great man by the little height, he channeled all his frustration into war and invested in power. (This inferiority complex concerning one's height is also referred to as the Napoleon Complex) See, now that is smart.
That is what a smart man, a statesman nonetheless should be doing. Channeling his 'shortcomings' into other avenues of success. In Napoleon's case, it was taking over the army, staging a coup, toppling the monarchy, reinstating himself as the absolute ruler and then finally invading and conquering most of Europe and surroundings.

Which is also what other great, short men did. Most notably Alexander the Great and Adolf Hitler. The former - the greatest warrior known to mankind - conquered almost the entire known world within the age of 33, and the latter single handedly brought about a World War.
[Oh, and also, my father. Very short, very adorable.]

So you would think, that being short is not a disadvantage at all. If it isn't one for a soldier then certainly shouldn't be one for a politician. Now, see, that's where you are wrong.

Cut to the present.

Nicolas Sarkozy, the current President of the French Republic and in all effect, the political leader of the one of the most politically advanced and radical nation is short. A lamentable 5'5 apparently. Now what does that have to do with anything you ask? Plenty.
First of all, he wears heels. Yeah, I know. I thought he is a confident man when he married that Carla Bruni. Evidently not. Why marry a 5'10 supermodel, if you have to resort to wearing heels then? What does that say about your intellectual faculties? Yes, you are human, but you are also the President. That puts things in perspective.
But oh, that's not all. there is more. It has now come to notice, that Sarkozy does not like having tall people around him at all. In fact according to the Montreal Gazzete:

All security agents have been discreetly advised not to apply for a job guarding Nicolas Sarkozy, police sources have claimed.

The French president, who is about 5 ft, 5 inches, is said to have banned tall bodyguards despite their added value of being able to spot potential attackers in a crowd.

A police source told Le Parisien newspaper that "there's no point recruiting supermen" as "large-sized" candidates stood little chance of being taken on.

The presidential guard has been expanded from 50 to 80 men since 2002, when a mentally disturbed man shot at Jacques Chirac, Mr Sarkozy's predecessor, with a hunting rifle.

Mr Sarkozy is notoriously sensitive and secretive about his height. He is shorter than Napoleon. His wife, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, who is 5 foot, 10 inches, often wears flat pumps when they appear together.

Mr Sarkozy, who wears specially designed stacked shoes, has been caught standing on tiptoes at global leader events and stood on a box to remain shoulder to shoulder with Barack Obama, the U.S. president, when they gave speeches to commemorate the Normandy landings last year.

At a visit to the Faurecia auto parts company in Normandy last September, workers claimed they had been picked to appear alongside Mr Sarkozy because they were "no bigger than the president". But the Elysee dismissed the claims as "absurd".

Read more: http://www.montrealgazette.com/news/Sarkozy+bans+tall+bodyguards/3123608/story.html#ixzz0qcQXISJh

Yeah, well, thats the kind of bullshit I'm talking about. It doesn't say much about the ruler of a nation when all he is worrying about the relative appearance of his height with reference to his bodyguards. I mean, sure you have to hear your British contemporaries making snide jokes at your expense, but you should be used to that by now! You're French, they're British! And if you cannot handle that, I feel a little concerned about France and the world in general.

Realizations and Observations

2010-06-08T12:58:00.001+05:30

Realizations and Observations have been made. In Capitals, yes. I'll Proceed to List some of them.

1. I'm almost 22. My brother is almost 16. No, thats not a Realization! Although it might drunkenly totter in the category of Observation. About 6 years back, I was almost 16 and my brother was almost 10. (That is just simple Calculation, don't coitus around with me.) Realization: 6 years back talking and kidding around with my brothers' friends was normal. It was how you behaved with the little boys when they came over for lemonade after an exhilarating day of soccer. Kidding around with them was nothing out of the ordinary.
But NOW, 6 years hence, it apparently isn't as innocent anymore. It is vaguely cougar-in-making. While I might still see them as my little-brother's-little-buddies, they aren't that little anymore. They have grown up and so has certain hormonal levels. And the fact that I'm their buddy's elder sister is more interesting than appalling. It makes itself very evident in the way my brother tries to ward me off every time I'm around. I am nauseated, really. This is one Sick Realization.

2. Observation: Mothers are evil. Grandmothers are angels. These traits skip one generation. So I am an angel. And my child will be evil. Realization: Do not procreate. (And no, I won't see this from my mother's perspective. Coitus off)

3. Observation: Every time you watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S. you secretly wonder if there is a Ross/Rachel for you out there. Realization: You probably are Janice.

4. Observation: Life will coitus you when you are the least horny of all. Realization: You forgot to use protection.

5. Observation: The only thing permanent in life is change. Realization: Yes, that's all that will remain in your pocket if you don't get a life/degree/job soon.

6. Observation: You actually read this through, did you? Realization: Wow, you really are jobless!

Water & Blood

2010-05-26T13:26:00.001+05:30

Some people need constructive love. Constructive is not the appropriate word I suppose but I really don't have any other word for that.
They want love that balances, that fulfills, that completes, that soothes, that makes the wrongs right and sutures the wounds.
They might settle, they might even yearn, but they will never suffer for want. It is a blessing in a way. To think that pain is just pain and nothing else. To think that love is harmony, something that will always be good, that will always be the light at the end of the tunnel.
It is intense in its own, romantic way. There are butterflies and cherry blossoms. It doesn't have to be this beautiful all the time, but it's always soothing. It is a wonderful sigh, this love.

Everybody should probably know this kind of love. Most might, but there are some who never will. They will know the other kind of love.

Love which is and will always be fatally destructive. Love which will tear them apart, claw at them from the inside and not stop till they have shredded themselves out.
It is a long, low, deep howl; this love. It is so appalling that by the end of it they're not sure how to tell the pain apart from the love.
But the people who indulge in this love will die without it. They will die with it, but they will die without it. They don't have an option, there is only one path for them to choose. They have to walk that road, on the thorns, through the fire, and be consumed by it in sheer ecstasy that defies all reason.
This love will always end badly, but then that is how it was supposed to. They knew it from the beginning, they hungered more and desired more and knew that the faster they chew through one end, closer it brings them to the other. But they still went on, because they didn't know how to stop.

On one hand, there is warmth, a heady scent that promises to last all the way.
On the other hand there are needles of pain, that will draw blood and pleasure alike.

On one hand, you have choices.
On the other hand, there is never a choice.

On one hand, there are fireflies that will light your way, flit through and make you delight and wonder.
On the other hand, there is a sharp, bright flame that will flare up and extinguish like an old, unfortunate parchment.

On one hand, there is a languorous satiation.
On the other hand, there's a never ending want.

On one hand there is pure, crystal water
On the other hand there is coppery, inconsistent blood.

It's really quite clear which love you should opt for, but it was never your decision to begin with.

If I had to make a choice between you and me,
I would always choose me,
for there is no you without me
- Me