The world is blue when I rewrited this opening. You knew it was '05 instead of '06 but is it really, today?
I'm writing to you like a drunkard so in love, too intoxicated with it that nothing coming off me will make any sense. That was precisely it: love is but the rational state of mind. Anything is except sanity.
As you tear, neatly as could be, the edge of the letter, you read what I conveyed in the blocks of letters. The small talks. Sunny jokes. Scribbles spots. No one would read behind the stamp and no one writes well with their hearts closed.
It gets lonely here around August to September as the year turns its wheels and I find it odd that every 12 months, we find ourselves on the starting line again. Hearts so patient and quiet you need those ink to amplify the sanskrits on it. And, every rotation place the gauge into weird place. Patient and unpatient. Certain and uncertain. The words follow.
It gets lonely here around this time of the year. Sometimes, it gets me wondering if it wears you down, this life I mean.
