For the nihilistic creature that you are, you sure do romanticize life a lot. You dream of buttercups and dew drops and vanilla dipped candles on fire tonight. You dream of the stars named after us and the sand beneath our feet and then tell me you want to die. There was a time when I’d say the same, but now every time I look up to the sky and see a lone cloud making its way down the street, I feel like catching it with my bare hands and drizzling it with molten honey and stuffing my face with it. You call me a little kooky but the fact still remains that you look at me and wish to entertain the chaos I dabble in. You call me witch in a way meant to be piercing, but it simply hammers my beliefs in. You try to dip your toe in my ocean but when you try to move back, you realise it is a quicksand drawing you in. The galaxy around the edges of my eyes drip-drip-drip into your very soul, and you try and dream of me again but this time you can only dream of inky blackness. Tell me again how much you hate me and wish to kiss me with those very lips, and I might just believe your lies.
Author: Himadri Krishna
Editor: Arushi Dubey