Nameless days. The solitude of a lost seagull. These days of love are strangely agonising. Agonising not because love seems to be in the air, just not in the air you breathe, but because with time, a slow cryptic cynicism has crept into your soul. Cynicism and disdain. At how celebrations are meant to feel. Celebration of love and longing. Is love truly so generously sprinkled on the stretches of mankind? And if so, then why does it always seem to elude you? Trick of the trade is, you my dear heart, might have missed that split of a nanosecond when love struck and then it faded. Like those many shooting stars in the night sky. Will you ever hold it again in your hands? Cynicism says, perhaps not, if only the idea of foolish romanticism still invades your mind. But then, love intervenes, and why not, isn't it the only emotion that is glorified and aspired to? Aren't we all looking for it somewhere or the other, in someone or the other? And so today I wonder is it the quest that is love or just plain naivete?
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