Lying and Lovemaking

“And so it was with us, she, moved by poetry and drink, feeding me with sweet lies, while I wove for her intricate and terrifying threads of fantasy.” 

- The Season for Migration to the North

"Just gonna stand there and hear me cry

But that's alright because I love the way you lie..." 

- Love the Way You Lie

the biggest acts of lies seemingly come from the lover,

in eminem's rap, 
in literary fiction, 
in life.
so what does love change?

is it the tendency to lie or the sensitivity to them?

is lying just a part of the overall act of love making;

a stroke in the throes of mind fucking, 

as one might,

'put it’?

a part of successful lying is in the ability to know which lies to tell,

in telling the lies,

that aren't really lies,

in telling the lies 

which aren't really truths,

but fill the gap between the truths.
and these are the lies which people are likely to believe as truths

  

for there is a beauty in these lies, 

and there is a need in these lies,

that transcends any of the truths.

for these lies have a different kind of truths.

delicate truths which cannot exist as such in the materiality of reality,
delicate truths which survive on only in the counterfactual, in lies, in a meta-reality.

A casual hobby becomes something we can't live without,

a common tragedy becomes a life changing experience, 

an ordinary trip, the most surreal location one has ever seen;

in our re-telling of them.

 exoticising and eroticizing are, must be, the same things; 

which is why we are only too eager to fall for those lies. 

then, there are lies
which are not manipulation of truths,

but are 
its invention. 

lies, which could have been the truths, 

lies, which almost became the truths, 

lies, which become truths 

in 

their 

telling.

we all indulge in this repackaging of ourselves and in the process,

start to believe in it; 

reconstructing ourselves to the need and requirement of our lover,

become poetic with a poet, 

appreciate art with an artist.

sometimes,

growing into these new roles we have concocted for ourselves,
and finding homes in them.

and sometimes,
failing to do so.

lies, which are like dreams, 

both real and yet unreal. 

the reasons dreams are cherished is not because they can become truths,
but exactly because they can never.

those are the real dreams; 

the ones which can be lived only in the realms of mind; 

and some lies, 

are like those dreams.

lies, which are like dreams, 

both real and yet unreal. 

these are the lies that remain lies.
but they become lies we start living with.
claims of an exceptional past that never existed,
thoughts and motivations that were never there.
but their outlandishness is exactly the reason why they are used,
because they seem like the kinds that could not exist and are therefore
exotic. 

this tendency to believe in exotic lies, 

and not just believe but tell them, 

betrays a need to travel. 

the exotic experience that lovemaking is,

compared to rest of the life,

it demands a certain exotic setting that comes only through 
dreams,
through travels,
through lies,
which are all really the same.

to sex is to randomize, 

to juggle up that jar of genes and produce a new, never before created combination,
to mingle sensations in a never before experienced manners, 
to match the back with the foot, 
toes with the tongues,
things almost impossible to accomplish 
"single-handedly"

sex

is randomization, 

and travelling through lies is a way to introduce random it into our lives. 

it teleports us from our current, 

spatially and temporally.

there is this lying, and exoticising even when we dress up,

in the decoration of the bed,

in the make up,

that reflecting through the mirrors-

relocating, mutating and re-numbering of our bodies

all exercises in lying in order to shuffle ourselves,

a many times,

in multiple places,

across multiples times.

ironically, this only becomes subtler when the act of love becomes physical. 

the very act of dimming of lights before sex is a certain kind of lying. 

it is the dimming of the starkness of body’s true, clear details 

into shadows and fuzziness.

a silent allowance to your partner

to re-construct details of your body

according to their needs.

to make it easy for them to lie to themselves

about who it is that they are sharing their body with

and in return get similar privileges for oneself.

it thus plays a crucial role in making true

the fantasies that the lovers may desire but may not share.

and yet, it is also bringing out a truth of different kinds,

in lying to the eyes, one makes clearer the truths of the skin.
darkness,
is essential for one to dream.

Lying in lovemaking is not trivial, 
for it proves love in ways that no truth can.

one must care enough to lie.

it takes effort to lie, 

to live in the guilt of lie,

and therefore, is a sacrifice for someone else’s happiness. 

it implies a certain fear of loss that would not exist without the love. 

and thus, also becomes a way to glorify it.

  

it allows for a buffer between the truths one must believe 

 and the ones they would like to believe, 

it allows for the buffer between lessons one has learnt, 

and those one eventually will, 

between the altogether too slowly evolving present 

and a wiser future. 

क्या फरक पड़ता है…

क्या फरक पड़ता है कि

फ़िर लापता है तु,

तेरी शख्सीयत तो मिल जाती है अकेले चाँद में आज भी।

 खामोश उम्मीदों  में

रह न पाता युं,

तेरी गैरहाज़िरी कि गुफ़्त्गु पर मेरे साथ थी।

क्या फरक पड़ता है…

क्या फरक पड़ता है कि

छू लिया किसी और को,

रंगीन तो तुझसे भी शाम कितनो कि आबाद थी।

दिन में चाहे आज संग

कितने हि साथ हो,

बिस्तर में कल रात फ़िर तेरी ही तो याद थी।

क्या फरक पड़ता है…

क्या फरक पड़ता है कि

मुझे हि रोग समझ बैठा है,

जंग तो तेरी खुद के हि नासूरों के साथ थी।

इस बहाने हि सही

तुझे लड़ना तो पड़ेगा,

शायद यारी हो फिर कुछ जीत के ही बाद ही।