Am still lovelorn and the poetry fever is still on. The evening rains have added to it and alcohol did more harm than good to rob me off sleep and muse on the stupid feeling that is defined as LOVE in the oxford dictionary. But then again as they say to ‘each his own’ – so my definition doesn’t fir any smug look or faraway flicker, just like me it stands forlorn and seldom interpreted in the way it is felt, but instead more so in the way it appears!

It’s Javed Akhtar tonight as I rummage through albums:




Translated by David Matthews to speak in the language I think in:

Hot coffee at 2 am, feeling  the rain splash against my face – knowing very well that like the above verses they are doing more harm than good to my existing migraine, isn’t also this a part of the madness I call love, which resides in the alley of my heart – whom again only I know!
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