Love

Love is that pure little feeling. Why little? Because we all become babies or stupid ‘in love’ children. Its so cute. Its so lovely. Its so damn beautiful. It’s a feeling so undescriptable yet expressable in the form of actions. Yes, being more physical and intimate doesn’t proves to be out of love or full of lust. Intimacy is yet another connection of human bodies where one can feel the intentions without hearing it out aloud. Love can simply be that one little moment where you want to eat food or heart shaped chocolates from his fingers. Love may not last lifetime, but lovely heartfelt memories last forever. Actions dont always include hearts and flowers, hugs and kisses, holding hands or kit-katss tempting between two pairs of lips; it can just be her smile when she watches him pack her bag diligently while she was called for a meeting at the end of the last lecture, and she hugs him from  behind not in real but with her soul to his in her imagination to tell him how much it matters, how much he matters. When I want to listen to a song and he asks me in sign language if I want o have anything in breakfast. Awwww…. That was so cuteeee. Forget about him, love can be explained only through its portrayals or ideals. For me, its novels. When I lost one, I got depressed like hell, searching for it in expected and also unexpected places, it made me cry in front of people when I realised I have really lost it. Novels are life to me. The secret excuse. The hideous escape. The beautiful feel of rustling papers. The endless ocean of smells. The mix-match of words developing a match-mix of feelings. Sometimes it feels like the novel is speaking to us, to me. The soul of writer eloping with mine. It has its special magical ears to listen to my reactions to the love and belonginess it offers with open arms every single time no matter I am happy, sad, angry, selfish, badass, goody-goody, anything, everything. Its there. It will be always there.