“Fuck the right term, I want this. Do you know what that means”? I asked her. Without a thought, “That means we’re gonna have it.”, She replied. I loved her in that moment. 

Want. I look deep down my life and realise how I didn’t want many possessions. I still don’t. Things don’t make me happy. Things never made me happy. I couldn’t have what other kids had in my childhood. I remember looking at kids my age and being confused— why do the toys make them happy? Why do I not want a new bicycle? Why can’t I go on the trip they are going to? That confusion stemmed from poverty. It was foreign for me to understand mere things can make you happy. 

I looked at it from the angle of contentment. I had food in my system. I had my parents to take care of me. I was lucky enough to study in a school. I was content. I didn’t need things. I never asked my parents for toys. I never mentioned school trips. I never asked for new clothes. I hated going out to shop, even if for myself, because it seemed pointless. I was busy counting my boons, while others kept adding up their troubles.

I never found allure in luxury. I leaned towards simplicity— I leaned towards books. I leaned towards solitude. And when I wanted someone, I leaned towards someone who grasped my essence, someone who understood. 

Naturally, I wanted fewer things. Not wanting something is as good as having it. But when I wanted something, I made it my reality. I wanted good grades when I was 15. I gave it my all and I had it. I wanted to make a lot of money to spend all of it in one go. I gave it my all and I had it. I wanted to break someone’s ego when I was 16, I gave it my all and I had it. The threshold of difficulty of wanting something kept getting higher, as I wanted fewer things.

I close my eyes on the sofa, alone. It’s dark and I feel like I’m the worst person in the world. I’m feverish, my head hurts. The stabs are back. To get my mind off of the pain, I’m thinking of her. What do I want to do with her? 

I want to love her. And I’m gonna give it my all. I want to love her without additions. Without time, without places, without forms. I want to love her with complications. I want to love her by involving my ego with hers. I want to love her with ferocity, with blood. I want to love her so that her body feels like mine. So that when she closes her eyes, I fall asleep. So that when she eats, I feel full. So that when she breathes, she breathes life back into me. 

I want the solace of being by the sea with her. I want that unexplainable bubble of ecstasy I feel in my heart when the fresh air hits her face while she watches the waves. 

I want to humiliate her. I want her to question me. I want her blind devotion, her utter submission. I want us against the world. I want her to weigh my heart and laugh at me because I hold less love in it and because she holds more in her heart.

I want her to have everything, and I want her to have nothing but me. And I will make this a reality. No other form of being will have a hand in it. 

God will have no hand in the creation of us. I will make all them jealous. I will bend the reality to have her— proving God either impotent or ignorant towards his creation. I will make all of them clinch their teeth, applauding helplessly, because I have her.

As I finish this thought, I open my eyes again, an hour has passed. I pick up my phone to write and ask myself again—is this what I really want?