On some mornings I try to convince myself she was just a dream, an illusion of a modern day Romeo.... perhaps it would've been better if she WAS a dream.

Are we to remain weak and malleable by our environment or do we possess the very essence to shape our reality, I prefer to believe in the latter.

Lately, though, I find that notion wavering at best..

Salvation comes as saline: sweat, tears and the ocean.

My heart is but a needle that made a few burgundy stitches in the gray fabric of life.

If life is devisible by years, months, days, hours, minutes and seconds. And if in the paradigm of quantitative blurs love is found and removes the person from such confinements. Then does love free one from life?