Dear Stranger,
They talk of love—far more than they've actually been in it. The bloody moon, the orange sun, flying hanky proven to permit panky, glances exchanged in elevators and mall mirrors, weddings and more weddings, divorces, sacrificial lambs, campings, fire and ice, broken flowers, weeping leaves, roses, the red rain and the smell of rain, the damned petrichor setting alight hearts like fresh petrol, and the banalities of everything that spews love. I'm not against love. But I'm sick of it because it leaves me barely any scope to imagine. Has the entire set of original thoughts and musings on love exhausted already? Or am I just an unimaginative person, a slave to my scientific and practical understanding of things. So do I merely draw my inspiration from what I read and observe? Then, what is love to me? It is the same old boring story. Perhaps love is a woman's age crawling steadily along her spine and sitting at her shoulder, writing letters to a stranger with a hope that he'd find them some day. But whatever the case, I strongly feel about the ripe cliché—that love is relentless, it always finds a way, like it did in this letter.
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