On love.. (and other stupid concoctions that keep brewing in a girl’s mind)

An idea which lives. Lives to give you hope. A thought which gives a push to next day. Something out of reach of hand, but within the grasp of the mind. Which is there just for you. May not mean nothing to the object of thought, but is that the point? Is it not enough to know that you are still capable of thinking, imagining, loving? That though this may not be the right time, but you are still composed of flesh and blood, exposed to follies of human nature like so many others around you. In fact you are able to feel and sense what does not pass between two people, or sense that what passes is opposite of what is supposed to, by your idea. Stepping outside seems I am losing ‘what could have been’ because of ego. But inside I know that the time has not come. Why? I would not know. If only someone knew both the ends. But the other is as closed as this is open. No one would ever know both the ends. Time will pass and all will think that there was no romance after all. But romance there was, even if one sided. There was a love story how so ever subtle.Even though we might end up miles away with different people and may never see each other ever again. Romance there was. Even though one-sided and short-lived. There was care, there was love even.
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What do you love? What can we love? An Idea. An Idea that matters even if it makes just two seconds of your life meaningful. When it gives hope though the later may not last for a long time. An idea which is based on a person but exists without him. The idea that sustains itself not on what is said but on what is said not. An idea which does not die because it just cannot. When you think you are out of it, there you go.. right plunging into it. An idea that can never die when you want it to because you never in the first place gave it life. An idea which is not just within you.. you can feel it about you. Is the person just an object of this idea? I don’t know. I would want to know. But how can I know? The idea and the person seem so distinct at times. It is only in retrospect or in absence that the two become one.