A ‘Love’ letter
February 14, 2012,
(Valentine’s Day, if you will)
I have suffered you long enough. It’s not you, it’s me. Oh wait, I think it’s you! I don’t think we get along very well. You eat away into my precious hours that I could otherwise spend in solving the Riemann hypothesis, or showing P is not the same as NP, or finding all the Bell Inequalities. Or saving the planet. Or I could just spend that time writing my grand tome on all things dull and dreadful. You know, time I could spend in doing cool things! Or dull ones. Yet here I am, whiling away my time writing to you! (and you do see the irony of it all, don’t you?) You’re quite an industry for those who know how to make money out of you. Like Archies. I can’t. And if I’m not even making money (forget about the ‘cool stuff’ I just mentioned) I don’t know why I should cling to you. I’m no hero. I’m not a “loverboy”. I don’t fit into the Bollywood mould, and my life’s not even a shadow of DDLJ. And I’ve better ways to spend my time than worry about you. Or at least I’d like it that way. Yet I’m not sure why you’re there, why you bug me so. I don’t seem to let go of you. You don’t seem to leave me alone either. I think I show symptoms of that disease called being in love with Love. And I need a cure. But before that, before I do anything to get rid of you, I have to tell you what’s been on my mind. And what I really think of you.
You know, I’m in a bit of a crappy mood right now. And I can make good use of it by telling you things. Things you don’t often hear about yourself. Not on this day, especially. Or maybe you do, from others who’re in a crappy mood. Anyway, you haven’t heard this from me before, so I have to do my bit. I think you’re a proxy for all things irrational and economically unwise. Perhaps even emotionally unwise. You’re a meme that transcends cultures. You predate all Internet memes. Deluded ones like the Bard wrote many a verse for you. And that only made it worse, for the rest of us. Yet, you don’t seem to be done. Haven’t we already produced all the literature we could about you? What more are you waiting for? I think you’re nature’s way of trapping us into the mating game. That’s what you are. And maybe that’s all you are. Oh wait! You’re cheese. Yes, you’re cheese! You make everything we do or say (in your unholy name) horribly cheesy. You’re a proxy for the proverbial spade. When folks don’t want to call a spade a spade, they call it ‘love’. Or may be I see spades everywhere right now!
You’re a train that takes folks nowhere, yet definitely far away from the now and here. You’re an escape, a refuge for many. You’re an excuse for whatever is vile and virtuous in us. You’re a catch-all for all the gooey stuff we find ourselves stuck with when we think we feel you. You’re malicious. In a very discreet sort of way. There. I said it. It might hurt you, but I had to tell you the truth, of this moment, as I write this. May you find peace in the fact I have loved you much and I’ve even had fun with you, though I have suffered you, and therefore I should let you go. For now, you’re much too heavy an application for my limited RAM, which must work on other applications — like writing a thesis, you know. Maybe we will meet again, maybe we won’t. I have to go. I don’t mean to be mean, if you know what I mean. This had to be said.
Just another cynic
Postscript: In the interest of a full disclosure, if you like ‘cheese’, you must wait a little. It’s not ready yet.
Update: As promised, your ‘cheese’ is here.