{Of all lies, art is the least untrue - Flaubert}

Friday, May 20, 2005


She ran like a child. She smelt him. She ran as if a child finds her mother in darkness, touches her and feels warmth of comforting love instantly, love that is waiting for her in every gloomy corner. She ran in the spark of light, in light of finding him. She touched him and felt something she could only explain. It was not darkness of night, it was the darkness of crowd that makes us see hazily and lets us loose the contacts. This darkness blinds us to love.

The corners of heart may still be unlighted by love but she knew for sure that it exists, it must exist deep inside, this faith in the surety of existence is what draw her closer to him. She could even smell the same feelings in him, at least she thought so. Something resonated, she thought she even heard it.

Love may not be rational or logical and it is great not to be so. She again felt the same stroke of pleasure just by touching him, almost a tremor. This happened again, yet again and probably these tremors kept her going. Love must be some electricity or quake but she never realized it. She never thought that this running may be just another run-of-the-mill thing. She sure was in love.

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