I just really wanted someone I can talk, share stories with and write love letters to. I remembered giving  exactly the same answers when I was asked what do I look in the opposite sex. They said it’s a feeble attempt to be funny, but I don’t get it, because that’s really what I want. I don’t know what goes universally in an artist’s mind (not that I consider myself one) but I observe that I tend to fall in love with my muse. And when one needs to create, writing in my case, it becomes easier when you have someone in mind. There’s a certain spontaneity of ideas, a mapping of words that have the potential to turn one’s life that is not present in random raptures and letters-to-no-one. I find it unfair, realizing I got more than what I bargained for. Because the girl that I just wanted to talk, share stories and write love letters to is also someone who wakes up everyday with the same yearning to talk to me, and share how things went in her side of the sky and write love letters for me, too.

I can’t remember exactly what I said the first time I wrote something for her, but I know I made sense then. Because she said so, and because I felt it, too. The words seemed like water flowing downstream after penetrating through rock.  And like her, I share the same amount of anticipation reading messages everyday. Stories after stories, non-sense after non-sense, snippets after snippets of every conceivable thing there is to discuss become part of our days. She became my muse, like fancy iridescence luring me to see the beauty of things, colouring every lines with vivid imagery and share them to the world. And in that process of musing, loneliness inhibits even in solitude and sad songs lose their pang of bleakness like pallid haze from once burning embers.

And I know, not everyone sees me the way she does. And I’ve lived long enough to realize that I should not let her go, the girl I can talk, and share stories and write letters to.