Love is just so hard,
I love you, no doubt and will always love you,
You and I are compatible,
But it's just the world,
It's so cruel.
Then there's our fate !
What if we aren't meant to be?

There was once a man who loved the brightest light.

He loved the light so much he couldn't see anything else but its blinding rays.

He lived knowing the world was white and the only thing existing was his light.

One day the light left him.

He felt lost.

He couldn't see anything, he claimed.

He spent his days mourning for his lost love, not knowing it did not worth it;

For true love was never blinding.


Then, another light came, claiming that it loves him.

It was not as bright as the one he loved but bright enough to make the man see not only the other beautiful things in the world but most importantly, the astonishing beauty he has.

It made him see how graceful his fingers move, how strong his chest looked as he breathes and how beautiful his muscles flexed as he embraced.

The new light made the man love himself.

That was the time the man realized that true love was not the perfect light.

True love was the light that appreciates and cares and embraces you back.

No matter how less its light might be or how often its light flickers, it would still share its brightness to you.

To make you see how worthy you are of loving.

To make you realize you don’t need too much light

For you, yourself, was one.

She had a patience,
that no one understood.
She could wait a million years,
just to prove her love.

But no one gave her the option.
No one wanted to wait.
No one wanted patience.
And she just wanted to make everyone happy.

On her quest to make everyone happy,
she lost herself.
She forgot how to smile.
Sometimes she even forgot to breathe.

She was willing to show her love,
but no one was willing to love her back.
At least not the way she loved them.
No one could love like she did.

But she was broken now,
and everyone kept stepping on her shattered pieces.
She was willing to wait on anyone,
but no one would wait for her.

Isn’t physically quick or agile.

Disappears in libraries.

Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books.

Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks.

Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming.

Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube.

Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.