A place where paintings are drawn through words.
But the colours are smeared by the rain of emotions.
Where proses are made poetic.
Cover image: Google Images
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I used to think, it must be easy to move on. For how long can you wish for the rain to dry you up instead of drenching you? For how long can you be waiting to get healed by the same person who stabbed you? And you definitely can't be craving for someone who punctured your self respect, right? You can't really be dying for someone who left you to drown in your endless spiral of anxiety and melancholy, right? And definitely you can't still be loving someone who has already moved on , crumbling your heart into little pieces of glass which do nothing but bleed you, right?
Well.
Wrong.
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