“I am myself. That is not enough.” Said Sylvia once back in time. Is it not enough to be myself? May be the extremist point of narcissism hit her for a momentum which lead her again to stress ” I am, I am and I am”.
Or rather- here I am. Almost 24 years old and in trouble. Curled in my usual corner of the bed between my white pillows, alone. Trying hard to dissolve the loneliness (I, myself voluntarily, mentally constructed and cherished in the most ardent way) by the dysfunctional practice of reading depressed novels.
Waiting shamelessly and desparately till the solid lover in my mother engineered love story sneaks peek into my mundane life with a “hey”- pop up notification. Desparate after all!
The evolve of my utmost mutual and passionate desire to keep him beside my lonely self , disturbed by the reality of the virtual long distance relationship. Alas, love!
The monsoon gloom and the shivering breezes peep into my bed room through the half opened window and the rain drops tap on the half dead flowers, making it easier to shed the left out wet, colour faded flower petals whose fragrance already disappeared into the dusk that comes too early.