Who writes what you write? Believe, it is not a stupid question. I write because I want to become somebody else, someone great, someone who understands beauty, someone who is in love with eternity. But in normal life I am just pathetic, silly, who gasps for air at the presence of two people. It makes me to believe that I am best when I am alone, and who doesn’t care to be best? What it is boring to best always by being alone. Is their any other way to escape your finitude, cobwebs of commonplace life?
Then I have no other option than to write, to hand over myself to something different and strange, to believe I am not altogether lost and wasted. I write because I want to love, even then I know can only fall in love and can’t love. Because fall in love does not mean to love. Thats my case, but there are other people who not only fall in love but just love without questions and complaints. They love when they love. For a while I let him, the lover live in me, instead of me. So that I can write a love poem.
So who writes what I write, Believe its not me!


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