My whole body is numb today - in spite of the stretched covering of my skin. I can hear my bones cracking. I cannot expect that your arms will provide me with the warmth of each evening and I leave that expectation for today. Only to be wanted tomorrow - with the same intensity. Today, I am alone and the reason is that I have left the desire to go with you - that passionate company - just for today. And at such a time, I read a letter from Rilke to Merline.

“No Merline, I am not at all surprised to find you so strong. What makes you valiant now, is that same freedom that allowed you to penetrate into the sanctuary of my love and kneel down there; not as a mere adorer but as a priest-select holding up to God, the final sacrifice - with arms straining under that weight. And you would be wrong dearest, not to make me admire your whole heart; alone with it you will discover many hitherto unknown talents in it. Only now, you will take possession of it, it will no longer be a heart’s phase but the whole heart, rounded the star, which will light you with your beams of first youth. May you succeed, my love, in following the rhythms of the season and of the mouth and the hand. Let us not be satisfied in telling each other a story of the heart, let us not make it a Legend. Love, along with Art, is the only license we have for transcending human conditions; for being more generous, if need be than the majority of humankind.”

A creator, a creation, a feminine control of mind and the poetry flowing out of this complex thought process - a beautiful exposure of human relationships; are the things about Rilke that attract me.

Today’s evening, I have returned back to my house - I did not wish to come back - but I am cowardly enough to have no other place to go - except with you. But what is it that I do not wish to lose here? My creative world full of fantasies and dreams?

Grief could have thought, It was grief,
Care would have thought, It was care,
They were welcome to their belief,
The over important pair.
Wind goes from farm to farm, in wave on wave
But carries no cry of what is hoped to be
There may be little of much beyond the grave
But the strong are saying nothing till they see.

You, after each of your outburst of words, go into a semiconscious sleep, not a complete sleep but just enough to make you blissfully unaware of your surroundings. And me, with all my discomfort and anguish sit near you; very close; just to see those changes in your mood. Just for that moment, if Time stops!

I feel whenever you are depressed in a suppression of your passion, the first two things that are affected are your hair and your eyes. Your voice does not come out - but floods with a force that carries me like the sea carrying the waves and splashes me onto the rocks at the shore.

What is this?

Is it an effect of the force of creativity or a hangover? Tremendous fatigue of creativity or mystic calls of death in which one has to die each moment - by an inch?

I am scared. I am scared of these lyrical fits. Dnyaneshwar took a samadhi having compiled the “Bhavartha Deepika”. Hemingway shot himself when he realised that the creativity that took him to peaks of fame had deserted him. Sylvia Plath emulated Hemingway. What do these suicides point to? Are they neurotics? Are they psychotics?

My foolish blabbering continued, mundane things trying to figure out connotations in your eyes, while you just smiled. And curled up your lips in a smile and pulled those thoughts in your eyes, deep within yourself.

I cancelled going with you. The evening was darkening and the night rising. I silently bid farewell to your body relying slightly on the support that was not my shoulder - subconsciously.