The Certainty of Not Loving

 

There comes a time when, after being fecund out of love for a prolonged decade or perhaps longer, the waiting becomes certainty. It becomes a habit that embraces you. The desire to hope to be in love, to be enchanted, cuddled, to make it loud and clear or privately whisper it, fades. It becomes a state, a condition of living. It still heaves, still pines for something more intimate and endearing, but the void does not ache. It screams in the subconscious but never growls like a metal rock vocalist. Actually it never did. It never proclaimed, nor reclaimed love. So perhaps it was never there.

A lot of love always needed proclamation. A sense of utmost sadomasochism which she would call security and wit. And she is not wrong. She merely views it, wants it that way. You cannot impose your definition, but as a believer in divinity and luck, you can yearn for another year of oscillating between solitude and loneliness. What you actually wanted was social inclusion and acceptance, worse, social noise. What you ended up declaring publicly was that you celebrate your introversion. And believe me, not because you consciously chose to remain socially inaudible, but because your meek voice and inwardness are something you are programmed with inherently.

You could still criticise loud and mad dancing, the penchant for item numbers or feet tapper music as signs of intellectual shallowness, and claim that is why you avoid such parties. But in reality, at times you do enjoy those social performances, accepting that they coexist perfectly with your brainy and quiet life. You walk around the lake, watch birds and people, hum, sing or write, and you take this apparently contradictory stance because you are configured to do so, to contradict, to live with an embraced state of dichotomy. Not because you nullify witty love, public display of affection, or the costly destination wedding. In fact you celebrate those, perhaps even want to call them your own. Yet you would still resist them, because you cannot but do so.

You still have to stay out of love, because you have a self imposed definition of love and its expression, not entirely by choice but by hereditary inclination, which is rare. 

You still have to stay out of love because that's the best trade-off you found for you so far.

You are not special.

You are merely a programmed robot of your own self condescending mockery, aware of a love yet to unfold, exist, or reveal itself, if ever.

14 February, 2026