At a house of 2400 Sft at a distance of 100 Meters from the sea shore, staring at the sleeping sun in the dusk from the balcony of the first floor of my duplex house, sipping the taste of coffee prepared by a girl of beauty with an eye on the skeleton of the book that would turn out from this write of mine, with my laptop and coffee cup exchanging their positions with my hands, I am writing my 'Let It be', a book that would burn my experiences and of course some genuine illusions of my interpreted perceptions into printed letters.
How a girl at my work station defeated all guards of my dreams. How she not only trickled through my dream of beauty but also dribbled the hurdles of my
thoughts on intelligence. I was an audience of third row, of The Play, the colors of green, orange, white played on her and called themselves as dress. The play was repetitively repetitive for 6 big months and none of the play viewers but I, liked it.. The way her brain drenched into the rain of methods for solving complex problems.
She was in a serious relationship with a guy since years;
A week of her absence made me realize that, I not only liked the art of her facial design and sensible muscle inside her skull but also had unknowingly fallen for her. A hazy expectation of, she would read this and I would be able to impress her at least to an extent of making her smile at me whenever our roads to pantry crossed, hit me and I killed my expectation.
And one fine day she was in a brand new dress, though I don’t remember its color, I felt as if someone slapped me hard on my ears and I could hear only the sound of kkuyiiiiiiii
Keeping the story of a girl at the start of the book is a marketing strategy.
But then, the dark won the battle against the dusk which I was a compatriot of. Now, I see a lamp at the tip of the sailing ship in that dark sea.
I am not licensed to hate this dark. I continue writing….
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