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On First Love.

After my repeated attempts at failing to write a decent essay (how am I going to learn this) and remarkably stumbling over it, as if an ant would assemble its food for winter, and it would lose all grains of the rice in a story. I wish the ant lost it in a story, so that I can make it up, I can make it up that the ant still eats, that ants are full. Aren't ants full beings, yes they are, at least that's how you look at ants through my eyes, if you are interested at all in my eyes, or ants, either of it works. After all that here I am doing some. Counting parts, assembling rice, rolling rice balls. Let's begin !


“First love fixes a life for ever: this much I have discovered over the years. It may not outrank subsequent loves, but they will always be affected by its existence.” - Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending.


There is something infinitely attractive about them who walks into a room full of people and makes everyone comfortable at once. Such charm befalls one. After several failed attempts at nice-hot sex, after your first published poems, sometimes we meet people who are full of energy, who walks like a duckling, who is pretty, and who is in a constant hoop and whirl and stoop. First love, like Barnes says, always cauterizes your heart. Falling in love is a tricky one, that's the most difficult part. For some people, it's the easiest, for others it is the most scary part, for others it isn’t there at all.


I have never liked Fellini, I think he needs to own up to himself, well that's what I think, I don't know about what happens when he sees a blank page and is staring with his eyes, I love blank pages, I am always full of excitement for blank pages. Lately I heard Olga Tockarczuk say the same in an interview that she was not scared of blank pages. First love is like photography, so full of truth, so loaded, like a basket of cheese fries doritoes, covered in dips and dips. It is thick, dense, always exciting, clinging. That person however pours into all persons we like, that person lives through everyone we fall in love with ever after. Do we fall in love that often? How do you know it, you know a knot, you know that you see something in this person so distinctive to that knot, that it never unfurls, it only gets further knotted.


I was jealous, you were funnier than me (which by the way rarely happens, mine is subtle humour, to whoever who doesn't have their humour sense please get one. Mine is so subtle that even really funny people never gets it, duh! but not going there). You were the better-looking one (that by the way happens all the time, so I do not mind), you were so good looking that everyone kept looking at you. You were a good speaker than I was (I am an average there, or right below average, I think I can manage amidst dumb audience). I am still not sure what happens in first loves, is it that the world just melts and gobbles. It all globes into you and me, to him and her, to her and her, to him and him, to anyone and anyone. What is love other than a rewiring of this whole world one has prepared inside, fading of people. Like a whole wide tree, let's think of a banyan that covers your head and showers its leaves on you. What am I other than an autumn that couldn't pick its leaves back (I don't usually do all this fancy, what am I at).


It is fancy isn't it, all seasons just become one person, you keep thinking about them all the time, for it was the first time you had loved. Do we remember it fully. I don't even remember it fully. But if I were to remember and if I knew each bit, from one end to the other, I would still not say, I would always and always not mind. I think the past goes away, but do the people in the past go away too. Are they ghosts (well I am fed up of this ghost-witch stories of women and men and all that, just saying) are they apparitions, do they glide in, how does that happen, can you tell me that math. Even if I, as if I would cut out of a photograph, carefully snipped the background of the photograph, damaged the center, and drew on the people, still first love stays. I do not think the person stays, does the person stay, love stays, is there love without the person, for the sake of not doing an irony let's say love stays. Love for people who make people comfortable in a room, love for their love, the field and the air their love would stir. It stays, the reverberations stay. I hear it from time to time. There is something about first love, like Susan asks Paul in The Only Story, where will you hang all your belongings if you ran away with me Paulie, in a satchel on a stick on the top of a tree?


The question however is, do you want all the subsequent loves of your life be like your first love, Barnes says he never wanted it to be (Two writers I know too well, or I have wanted to say hi are perhaps Barnes, one, because I think I know what he knows, two Pynchon, but I don't mind, he I don't think will be very interested, but I know what he knows) I never wanted it too. I never wanted anything like my first love ever again, all that silence, all that loudness, all my presence and your charm, your insecurities and my ever lasting security, your awkwardness and my awkwardness and my confusions, your tongue and my tongue. But that tree grows on my head, the rag and the stick is still somewhere around, into which all the belongings are filled. This is a good one, all first loves change what you feel, who you were, what you wanted to become. It fixes you on an axis, does it ever rewire you, I hope that rarely happens. But it definitely builds you, who you are from who you were. Underneath a lonely brick laid wall outside boring library, watching pipes swirl by. You are dragged out of a pipe. You are lean again.



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