How do we manage to pick a broken quote from a book and love it so intensely? This book that I am reading is filled of lines that will complete themselves before I sleep. Such is the nature of innocence in these sentences. The silence well defined, the noise well controlled. Every feeling measured against rationality, every feeling melting and crossing its boundary towards the end of the chapter. Today, when I am on the last page, I feel I could have written different stories about every line. Stories that I will recite to myself years later. Stories that will say, how the half moon decides to complete itself, how a rude guy makes a soft decision, how we get those butterflies when love happens and how we always hold onto, our broken lines and dreams.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
I like this colour of love. I like the insanity in this colour- the tinge of isolation and the need of love this colour shows. This colour is not a shade of mere colour, but a transformation of mood: from dependence to independence, from curses to immunity from etc to beyond etc. I have seen and worn every colour, but nothing like red. The air around you tells you that you are present where you are, important where you exist and noticeable in every manner; when in red. That's why I say, its not a colour. Red is a state of agony wrapped in art of love. Because all that you say, turns into plain red. The red that bounces between love and hate.