The Act

There should really be a rulebook on love. A big, fat rulebook. The one which outlines the do's and dont's of love. A book which takes a bold chance at defining it. A book which tells you how much is too much or when too much is still not enough. One which defines the 'correct' pace of a relationship - when it's going too fast or too slow. One which speaks of compatibility and chemistry. Of loyalty and sacrifices. Of affection. Of social expectations and social acceptance.

A book which dictates the rightful members of the love bubble - and when it is acceptable to bring other people in, whose opinions you should consider, whose feelings you should consider. Or is this bubble really just a club of two?

A book, with a chapter solely dedicated to 'when the heart and mind collide, what do you do?'

A book which provides a guideline of when to keep going or when to give it all up completely.

A book which takes a bold stance on love vs. security, love vs. responsibility and love vs. familiarity.

A book with clear, succinct everyday rules. Rules that when broken, suggest stupidity. Rules that when broken, suggest non-sensicality; suggest that you're doing it all for the wrong reasons.

And a debate on who is the perfect picture of love. Posh & Becks, or that couple who grew old together in that mediocre house, who lived a mediocre life, and who had no more than a medicore ring on their finger to show for themselves.

But even if this rulebook did exist, and if you did pick it up and read it cover to cover - twice; learned it diligently, mastered the rules, memorised the stories by heart. And even after all that, you find yourself failing to comply, failing to obey and breaking every decorum there is, does that signify failure in this subject of love? I think not.

For some may have tried to conform and tried to play the game accordingly, but their hearts simply reign over those rules unquestionably. And that is only because it stands testament that love, conquers all.

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My life is a waiting room. A big, huge waiting room. And I sit in it in the anticipation of many, many things. The small things, the big things, the good things. And when things are good, I expect karma to bite me in the ass, and that is when I anticipate the bad things.

I wait for the train, or for the rain to stop. I wait for the clock to strike 5, and then later at 7, and then at 10 on Wednesdays for Desperate Housewives. I wait for my clothes to dry. I wait for shops on Bond St to go on sale. I wait for payday, holidays, birthdays. I wait to go home. I wait for a miracle, a chance, a change. A bloody sign. I wait for my time, my turn. And my turn for a ticket to see Daniel Radcliffe baring it all in Equus. (Seriously, is there any Harry Potter left in there?)

And in this room, there's this bell. And for whom it tolls keeps everyone on their toes and waiting. And when a name is called, and if that name is not mine - that's ok. I wait.