This has nothing to do with yoga.
Or does it? Because yoga is just, is. It is life as the purest form as it is.
But I want to talk about love.
Of the various kind, at the various time, with the various people.
I am caught up in the “call me by your name” craze. Summer/ Spring of 2018, new movie about a boy and his first love.
I saw this analysis about this particular type of love stories, and it hits me so hard.
It is the dream world, the commentator/analysis says. Where things are just helping along, where the world is just so friendly and encourages your first love to be; free, daring, sour, stinging as you wish it to be.
The never had I ever experienced it before; the longing to understand; the non-jaded approach. Before any hurt, any pain, any realisation would have happened.
The purest, scariest, most exciting, almost orgasmic first love.
It is the idea itself; the anticipation; the wanting to cross the border but didn’t dare. The enjoying of the crossing the border. The beauty in the pain, the excitement, the struggle, the shame.
And then we tried. Maybe with great, lasting affair, maybe not.
But nonetheless it is the journey.
Is it the idea of the person we were in love with, is it is the idea of love, on its own; the very materialisation of love, after seeing all the movies, reading all the stories, listening to all the corny love songs, that is to ecstatic? Or is it the potion of love, soul-crushingly, addictively, in itself?
Nothing is quite like the first love, they say.
Call me by your name, and I’ll call you by mine, Oliver says.
To become one, the single entity where home is.
Love is home.
Nothing is quite like the first love.
But nothing is quite like the second, or the third, or the other ones afterward either.
Nothing is quite like love, be loved, and living and breathing love.
It is the moment when human connection sinks in, when what we are programmed to do, as homosapiens, finally makes sens.
Some would say I still love my first love, to this day. And it would not have been incorrect. As it would not have been incorrect to say I still love my second, my third.
Once you find that connection, the real, intimate passing of two separate entities, becoming one, in a way that is beyond just what we understand as mentally, physically, transformatively (which, in my regrets, is not a real word) or metamorphosiscally (that is not a word either, but should be).
Call it what you wish, it is what is going to make sense, that it had made sense, to you, already.
You feel it in your bones, when the connection, the pairing signal, the translation becomes the norm; the very reality.
It doesn’t have to come in the pairing of romantic relationship either. It can be without the hormones, the mating call, the love as modern culture depicts.
Here I am, in all my contradictions, looking at the clear blue sky, thinking about that time, in the capsule of time, in the daring of the youthful mind. Thinking about the idea of time capsule, the idea of love, and most desperate form of love.
And the love that I have for the ones that’s about to come, the ones that I have in my life, the ones that both me and them know, mutually, without naming, right now.
The love I have for you, and you, and you and you and you that comes across this journey in my life.
It is love.
And how I wish for life to slow down, in this capsule, this exact moment, the exact view, smell, colour, and feel.
And life moves forward.
Like the old man I am looking right now, topless, on his own balcony, rubbing his outdoor table.
This sound, the sensation of the wind, this thought of my first love, will stay with me, for the rest of my life. Without me being able to pinpoint, to replicate, to even tell it as it is.
Just as the sound, the sensation of this temperature, this thought of my current love, it is the now, the details you can see, from the colour spectrum, the sound, the underlying feeling of it all, will stay with me, for the rest of my life.
It is exactly why,that is all worth living for.
Live now, and not a moment earlier, or later.