In theory, love is the perfect illusion, but it's just that: an illusion. Nothing more, nothing less. We, women, spend our entire lives attempting to untangle the wilderness that forbodes around our solemn and lonely hearts. Our nastalgia is the only warmth that lies between the sheets at night. And the darkness surrounds us, for we have not found the love that will one day be the warmth of a thousand suns and love of a thousand men. One day all of the darkness, all of the fear, all of the lonliness, and all of the pain will evaporate. One day our man will come; this is the illusion that we tell ourselves. This perfect illusion that keeps us dragging on through the forest of forgotten promises and unexplored love. But it is nothing more or less than the perfect illusion: love.
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My Random Writings
बेतरतीबThis will be anything. Almost like a blog but a bit harder to trace.
