The Autobiography of a Romance: Prologue

Love is beautiful, and romance an essential ingredient of a fulfilled life. In its various forms, including the love for the self, it magically affects a living soul, uplifting it, inspiring it, letting it attain inexplicable joys. It makes life beautiful beyond words, and it makes words flow like poetry, and it makes poetry soulful like music, and it makes music seep in deeper into us than it ever could. In its exceptional glory, romance often becomes one with the soul – love consumes the lover, and there is no telling the difference between the two.

Having stayed away from my family and loved ones since I was eleven, and then for close to five years now, adopting a life marked more by a peaceful, blissful solitude than seeking to fulfill the fundamental desire for emotional intimacy, love and its magical beauty is something not usually found in my thoughts and expressions. However, all these years, almost all of my conscious existence, there is something I have loved unconditionally, and passionately. It is cinema, the ‘most beautiful fraud on earth’, that I have indulged into and worshipped with all my being. So much so, that I do not see any woman coming into my life and loving me and getting my love in return, until she understands and accepts that my first love shall always be this wonderful spectacle called the Motion Pictures.

On this Valentine’s Day, I’m starting this new column on this blog, that will chronicle that love story of mine, from its conception to the mad passion it became, and that hopefully will last until I breathe. It is going to be an autobiography indeed, of the love that is now the only way I can define or describe myself. Coming up soon, in different chapters, the most intimate details of my love affair with pictures at the rate of twenty-four frames per second…