The fringe benefits of break ups & cacophony of thoughts from a beautiful mind

Love is a smoke made from the fumes of sighs. Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes. Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears What is it else? A madness most discreet A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

It would be nothing short of heresy on my part if I did not attribute the originality of the above verse to my literary master and commander- William Shakespeare. If your sex is male and you do not quite follow the wisdom above, please consult a standard paraphrasing guidebook. However, if you belong to the 'fairer sex', you know my e-mail address. Before you judge me for a pervert, please understand that I graduated from a school where 'sex kills - come to CMU and live forever.'

Probably, a break up is worse than the 'life and death' I just spoke about. A break-up may be defined as personal situation where you experience the most excruciating sentimental pain over uncertain and varying period of time caused solely by the action or inaction of another individual who was probably paid more attention than he or she deserved. And I shall humbly agree with you that this is not an all inclusive definition, since this is not always the case. It is almost impossible to trap the nuances of the most complex human nature within the confines of the English language. Some people have tried. An exemplary performance is right at the top of this page.

But a break up can be sometimes beautifully refreshing too! That morning, I did not have to get up early and punch her 'good morning' in the one hundred and eleventh language on the text message screen. Unlike yesterday, I wasn't concerned if the cologne and deodorant smelt sexy and swanky. I could willingly choose to postpone my visit to Supercuts by a few months. My shirt and trousers needn't be Mark and Spencer. I could easily get into the not so bad clothing I once bought for a pittance at a Calcutta footpath. I shall prefer not to talk about the other garments like socks, handkerchiefs, underwear or other paraphernalia since any dedicated effort towards decreasing its standards is quite invisible to all human eyes. That said, I am not irritated if the new text message on the phone is not from her and I'm thrilled if a sweet voice on my phone is from a wrong number. I do not have to twitch and twist by the minute and impatiently wait for the evening when I shall see her at the French restaurant. By the way, this weekend, I can finally use the launderette and watch war movies that do not have scenes like this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=841ld1D6eW8

It is evening now and I can join my mates for a few Guinness down at the pub. We can talk about all the girls known and unknown, famous and infamous, blonde and brunette, Asian and European, single and not so single, Monica Lewinsky and Princess Diana, hot and cool, married and unmarried, young and not so young, witches and bitches, NSA and LTR, pierced and tattooed, shaken and stirred, pink iphone and blackberry, martini and single malt, till we're too drunk to hear that the pub will be shutting down in a few minutes. I am no longer the lover boy cum Bill no mates and can sleep like a baby.

Whilst he is sleeping, she is silently awake. In the middle of the night, she remembers about how they met and how the ground beneath her feet gradually slipped. Not to forget that in the fullness of time, her feet hardly touched the ground as she was the princess of his dreams. Will she forget the summer at the beach, the endless conversations, romantic evenings or the last Valentine's day when he almost colonised the moon in her name? The little unknown things she did, the distant destiny she fancied, the winter of despair and the spring of joy - she cherished all the seasons under the sun as long as he was there. The shadow of parting hurt and togetherness was tantamount to unparalleled joy. And then by the caprice of fate or some nuclear explosion on a distant planet, he is lying half dead on his bed miles away from the unattended tear on her rosy cheek. Shakespeare is probably feeling good. The romantic tragedies of life have evolved more character in his characters who have danced to the tune of his Elizabethan ink.

The spring of joy is over. The summer days are long gone. Fall is here and love is in the air. Nature braces itself to meet the harsh winter when the sparrow will have to bleed itself against a thorn on a snowy night to keep the rose red and alive. The matrix of creation looks down upon the human civilisation where love actually still exists. Love, love and love alone caused King Edward to lose his throne!

In the course of her pursuit for excellence, she has reached sun lit outlandish uplands where the three rivers converge to symbolise the unity of body, mind and soul. The monotony of her disposition is constantly challenged by the pleasant thoughts of someone new who might touch her life and add life to it again. The spark kindles hope. But the thought of her past violently interferes with the train of her thoughts. Her frail and pale figure reconciles with the history and reality and then hurries across the quad with dusty books on metaphysics. Suddenly, a new feeling blossoms in her. She cherishes all of those things that never happened to her. She is nonchalant about her success and her failure. The pursuit of happiness is now more exciting since she feels it’s fabulous if dreams fail. Her heart races up the stairs and she is panting. If the boy in her bedroom poster actually came to life, it would be a total loss since the dream would turn into reality. That reality isn't the pursuit of her life. She is in the pursuit of her dreams which should last forever and keep her going. By now, she is intense, fast and furious as she turns her hand to measure the treacherous time. Those extra ten pounds fall off her hands and she almost crashes into someone. They gaze at each other. He has the fire in his eyes. He is far from perfect but he too looks like a dreamer. She has finally met someone she is looking for - a dreamer.

Meanwhile, our friend lying half dead after pints of Irish lager is mending his oars. The hangover is long gone and the distant sea rises and salutes his spirits as he prepares himself to embark on these wanton waves to meet his dreams. That skimpily clad lady stands in the middle of the vast ocean wearing tiger skin with saffron dyed long hair that almost touches her knees. Her eyes are wild and Atlantic blue and she exudes Arctic freshness flavoured with musk. She holds a silver trident in her hand and a rose (yes, the same one saturated the sparrow's blood) in the other. He can almost see her in the middle of storm. That nasty break up has been left behind in the narrow alleys of forgetfulness and the future lies ahead. It might take him days before he gets to his new love but his spirit lies undeterred. The cold temperature and the stormy waves remind him of what he heard on BBC America this morning.

"It’s a rather cold day in Pittsburgh today. The mercury is at fifty eight and the barometric levels are sharply going down. Quite surprisingly, mild tremors may be expected with some decent reading on the Richter. However mild they may be, they will not be so inconsequential. Expect some precipitation as well but that will clear up the skies and it just might be perfectly alright when the sun goes down."

Amen.