Most Of Us Need The Eggs

You know, the thing about romantic love is that it comes uninvited, stealthily, an often unwelcome intrusion into an otherwise smooth flow of things. And then it creates chaos. It is like letting the camel into the tent. You let a tiny part of it inside and before you know you are kicked out, shivering, into the cold and love has taken over the empire of your own essential self. To put it a bit harshly love is a happy cancer that eats away your rational self a little by little, evading all diagnosis, killing you softly in the most pleasant way. Much like tickling your belly and while you are rolling in laughter, poking your eyes out and drilling nails into your palm. I don't know how pleasant that is, but hey at least you were laughing ! Everytime I am in love, rather at the end of it, I invariably feel like Sisyphus. You roll up the rock. Sweating. Panting. While the sun is frying your back. But you keep at it (god alone knows why), perhaps ' cause like I was saying you have already bid goodbye to your rational self.Perhaps you enjoy the scenery for a while. And then you get to the top and are destined to watch the rock, (which has now through your toil become a part of you), the inadvertent horcrux, roll down farther and farther, helplessly like a complete idiot. Why did I do this or why do I do this then becomes that ever reverberating question in the muddled universe inside your head. Like a tape that is stuck, playing over and over. What a heartbroken developmental economist in love might call the vicious circle of love and heartbreak. Frankly, I don't know, even now why we do this to ourselves. Though being a hopeless romantic and the quintessential sentimental fool I  have been brooding over this for quite some time now. Like an ascetic I have looked at others and myself-people in love, young couples, children, beggars, men, women, teenagers,  married, unmarried-marred and unmarred by love. Just to understand love and its dynamics. A friend long ago told me a joke. Recently I was watching Annie Hall (1977), and there it was again at the end of it, where Woody Allen tells about the guy who goes to a psychiatrist. So a guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, doc my brother thinks he is a chicken. He acts like a chicken all day long and thinks he can lay eggs. I am so worried I don't know what to do. And so the doc says, okay turn your brother in tomorrow I'll take a look at him. And then the guy goes, but doc I need the eggs. In the absurdist drama that love is most of us need the eggs. If you think of the absurdity of life as the Himalayas then love is Mt Everest. And this is perhaps the only  explanation as to why we do it. We do it because we cant make sense of it. We do it because it gives us an illusion of sense. Romantic love is the picture of a sumptuous meal painted by a painter slowly dying of starvation. In the end it is an engaging absurd distraction from the larger absurdity that is life. And so we do it. Like Sisyphus. Like Allen's wacko. We do it. In the pursuit of happiness and acceptance. Love and its comfortable delusions.