Raga and Sagar. Music and the ocean. Together, they are an endless conversation.
She is in a room with white walls, a huge french window and large white curtains that flutter in the wind. A tiny cottage by a cliff that faced the ocean. Standing at a balcony you could see the entire sea. Just behind the cottage at a far distance are few other cottages scattered away, it being a self sustainable community farm. The world isn't the same anymore. There isn't even electricity. It in essence is a possible dystopia. A better beautiful one.
She sleeps all night with the curtains closed, with her red light on. And he draws those curtains open as dawn hits. She wakes up to those soft golden rays of sunshine hitting her, and engulfing her in the warmth and he in the silhouette. And she is kissed. Softly. In that blissful time between sleeping and waking up. And handed a cup of coffee. Hot steaming mugs in their hands. They drink coffee slowly sipping it. Slightly Hot, dark, tasty. She would like to start loving coffee again. And a deep kiss, something that can give her strength to survive the rest of the day with, tasting coffee in each other. And she feels no failure. And she feels no loss. At the moment, it's just another vague memory in some fading corner. And she wake up from bed, throwing on some clothes.
She takes a shower. Cold water rattling her bones, her blood, her nerves. She throws on a robe and steps out. And it isn't an airport run and a hug kind of love, it's calm, a soft warm love. He is having some breakfast, she is having some cereal. They catch each others eye. And they know. That kind of love .
They get into their farms, she is tending to the plants, collecting the medicinal shrubs, reaping the ripe vegetables. He is at a distance, filling the tanks with water from the wells. And they think time to time of the men who perished as a result of the system and how grateful they were to be in the peace of a farm to live on, and a peaceful way to survive what came. Time doesn't exist anymore. She can spend hours is a fit of passion. In an engulfing warm hug. Time is of no consequence and hours are minutes. It's not what they exist like, its the way they exist, in silence, in love and in solidarity. In a comfort with each other, despite differences. They find comfort in the places they overlap and strength where they don't. It's all like a nice steaming cup of coffee. A bit bitter. And more sweet. Just like she likes it. It's a Sunday afternoon. The skies a blend of pink, blue and orange. They enjoy solitude. On a lawn outside, sipping some juice. The sun is blocked by the clouds. It's about to pour down rain. The clouds are holding too much inside and and are about to burst it all out. Just like her. And in that crucial fragility they exist. In love , in glory. She has her world. And he has his world. And sometimes they intertwine. It starts to pour and so does she. He isn't afraid of human emotions. Of tears from her eyes. He watches her cry and smiles that she's strong enough to cry. He is gentle. His words are soothing. Loving. He hugs her and at that moment, that is enough. He doesn't even have to ask.
He is in his world, in the corner of the room, surrounded by papers and typewriter. Pouring his mind out. Yes it's his mind. His heart pours out only for her. He is a complex myriad of a human being. Complex range of emotions. Fragile. Strong. Everything all at once. And she fucking loves him for that. She sips her Irish coffee, cause it's night and she needs that whisky in her blood. For the cold. Well not really, cause a hug from him is enough to deal with all her cold. And he looks at her watching him. He smiles and gets back to his writing. That little eye contact. That is how souls catch on fire. Tonight she doesnt write. She is too busy being fascinated. We live in the perpetual awe of the particular way our lovers are, right?. Yes. Yes. She is in awe of him. But she doesn't worship him. She likes to think he is in awe of her too. But that's not for her to say. This is only about her. Her love. What she feels. And she realizes that she had finally tapped on to that unconditional love. He can be a man damned from hell and she'll love him with the same intensity. Because it's him. She forgives the world because he exists. she forgives him because he exists. And when she says she'll love him and take him, she means as he is.
That moment she forgets the boys that she's been heartbroken over. It all is so insignificant compared to this. This is passion at its best. Soul stirring, setting her on fire. And when they make art, it's so fucking awesome. Even the pain. Art so intense, this is enough. And she dozes off to sleep, in bliss. She remembers him through her sleep. A tender memory.
It was all so inevitable.
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