What is life, if not a collection of exceptions as memories.
[So, in the story/narrative ahead, whenever something happens which doesn't follow my normal conventions, or when something involves someone who is an "exception", I will indicate by writing the term "exception" within brackets.]
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Being a weekend followed by a roller coaster of a week, I decided to spend the day in my favorite way. The day went as intended. Finally, it was time for me to prepare for the week ahead. So, I took my phone off from it's hibernation to set the morning alarm. That is when I saw the notification of the messages from (exception). I opened it up to see a few lines of text followed by a series of photos which were sent before noon. Now, I know that I never asked for any photos to be sent nor was I informed of it. Even the prior text did not indicate anything. So, I assumed that perhaps these are also the usual photos... wishes, nature, travel destinations, and the like. It was late and calling just to ask about the photos did not seem a go-to option. However, that meek voice reasoned it out and I decided to download and view just one... what if it was necessary (exception). So, I did.
It was an old picture... of me. I didn't even remember this picture. Now, having known the nature of the photos, I opened up every one that was sent. The printed copy of the pictures were assorted in an album, and I was sent photos captured from pictures of that photo album. To open up an album, browse through the old photos, and taken back in the memory lane is one thing (and a very meaningful one at that). However, capturing photos of those pictures, sending them to another person and to allow them to travel with you in the journey of your memories paints a different experience altogether.
I was smiling... though it took me a while to realize that. Probably because I was filled up with all these memories... and I will not even attempt to write what I was feeling, for there are probably no words made to describe it.
And when you "know" of the existence of this force, and are still in the process of figuring out why, it feels ethereal.
Love has always enamored me. The more I try to understand it, the more it mystifies. Is it even possible to love someone so much!! (And then again, how to measure "much"?) It becomes even more mystical when we try to figure out why we are the subject of someone's adoration. I mean, Love in itself is an enigmatic force. Its very existence is nothing sort of an enigma. We... loving someone... is in itself a great mystery. But when it is directed at us, the mystery intensifies by even a greater degree. And when you "know" of the existence of this force, and are still in the process of figuring out why, it feels ethereal.
It must be magic. How else can it be explained? To the greatest of forces, to the most enigmatic existences... to Love.
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