I stole love !

This is going to be a scary ride,
I am going to try to write everything exactly as in my mind, at this right moment.
It’s going to be loud, people are going to read it,
people are going to listen what my mind says,
maybe they will judge, they will make faces, they will talk about it for next another week
maybe! Call me different names, think about it and then it will be oblivion.
I think I can afford attention for a while.
But I am sorry,
sorry my mind has nothing about feminism, chauvinism, political hatred, separation of countries, or anything else that creates revolutions,
or anything that is sort of ism related to hatred in humanity,
It’s just,
Places, Spaces, dimensions and a lot of nervousness,
and walking imaginations,
I imagine too much in this monochrome head of mine, which is so devoid of any other good colors. With so many explosions of so many years continuously going on, inside my head. I feel these explosions all the time, blurring my vision and make me believe in insanity, madness, impossible, emotions and beauty.
We are sitting on the horizon watching the sun set, at the tip of the universe. The sky is soaked in words and songs that only spread out love. If anytime, these pregnant clouds had burst and rain, there will be only love, happiness showered.
Right now, it’s just us on the sofa, and songs playing all around us. This is not the end of the world but a different dimension where it is the just end of the time.
Sunken arms on the sofa. I, rest my head on your shoulder and this is probably the most comforting thing in the world. You read out loud, my favorite lines of the Wuthering Heights. You read it out to me? or to yourself ? or to the sun?
It’s a faded copy though and you keep reading when I hear the waves crashing.
I have read this story so many time from these faded texts but never has it been better. Your eyes widen, they absorb the text right from the book. You can not believe why Heathcliff did what he did. You can not believe what form of love it is.
They tell you it’s fictional but can it be? What if it’s true.
I see some other books lying near the sofa in the space.
Those pages that I once flipped are now lifeless. They’re from different space for a different space. But the text is same, exactly the same. It’s not like me who has ghosts of past, who is the different person in present.
The sky is still singing melodies in technicolor. Your voice echoes in this space, this is now turning into a memory trying to enter into oblivion.
But no, no! I don’t want to let it go. I am going to stay here, right here at this horizon with you and this sky, sun, music.
Everything is supposed to be lovely.

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