As I was growing up the stories I heard about love started getting strange.
I always felt love was a sense of comfort, like meeting a stranger on a foreign land who speaks your native language with utter fluency. But what I never knew was, when my story will reach its climax, its inevitable end, I will forget how to communicate, making me forever mute and vacuous.
I thought I knew how to narrate happiness and love in eleven languages. As I grew up I recited sadness in eleven different eulogies on the grave of love.
They told me love always comes dressed in the cloak of relief and solace, like downpour that soothes your bruises and cracks on a warm day.
I am still waiting for this incessant rain filled with unending rage and ruins of a distant past to stop. This downpour of love just didn't know how to use punctuations, when to stop, when to start.