To love💜

 And I hope that when love finds me, it looks at me the way I look at my dreams.

I remember when someone told me to go look at the moon because no matter how far we were, the sky was the same, and thus, we would be watching the same moon. I find it funny how one loses so much sense when one loves. Love, to me, always felt like a gentle breeze of the wind, someone remembering that I like my coffee black, someone cooking a bowl of hot noodles because I felt like it. Love, to me, always felt like little moments, of how seeing a rollercoaster would remind them of me, how they would think of me when buying a book, perhaps, even asking me for a recommendation. Love, to me, is when someone sees the sunburnt face of mine and laughs hysterically just because I told them not to. It's when someone makes an extra cup of tea without asking because they already know. Love, to me, is when things slowly fall into place, and when you pour your heart out just for that sake. I guess I particularly refer to Godel's incompleteness theory in everything because I heartily believe that every human system is incomplete without other humans to share stories with. Reminds me of the movie Into the Wild. Happiness is only real when shared. Perhaps all of us are these incomplete beings so voracious, trying to hoard love and happiness from everyone and everywhere that we lose the entire essence of love. Love, to me, is when a sunflower looks at the sun, when the droplet of water eventually returns to the myriad droplets with a wave, when an old couple on a plane wait for the other to tie their seat belts, when a dancer looks at the floor with sheer dedication, when someone performs and you shout from the very last seat which you came to running, wet and full of hope because someone you admired was showing themselves to the world. Love is knowing, and love is being. Love, to me, is the wrappers you save, it’s the dates you attach on your walls, it’s the little diary entries that are your little secrets. Love, to me, is not the embodiment of Nastenka, it isn't the un-named narrator who lost himself, love to me is Narcissus, it's Ove, it's Feynman. Love, to me, was never about you my dear, it was about all the things and people I admired before you.

Love is how I look at the pictures of the little child I grew up from and promise to give her the world; love is how the senseless chapters of my novel still call me when I am alone; love is when the purple color of my room darkens in the evening; love is when the candle flickers in the wind; love is where randomness follows a pattern; love is where countless things just come into place. Love is more than the person, more than the act. Love is an infinitely available condiment of human emotions, and love is so sacred, so pure. Love is how I type this with little hope; love is how my untied shoes seem so alone. Love is cutting up a piece of pie in two very thin slices; love is a take-out box full of the bread you both couldn't have. Love is the phone cover which has your name on it. But you know? Love is also the scars you have on your hand. Love is also the tears that you cry. Love is also the pain in your chest when you can no longer bear the weight of life. Love is heartbreak, and love is also the hot chocolate that waits for you in the kitchen. Love is nothing less and nothing more. Love is something that's just enough, just enough to call you home. 

Pure reality in the eyes showering hope, 
special, a miracle, pleading a day alive!

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