Journal

What is love, if it is not hard and painful surrounded by delusions, delusion of being the person that is once being loved.

So many Men of colour around yet, O' Boy! I go colourblind when I am with you.

Lots of colours in the world. Yet people wish to choose all colours (White) or no colour (Black) as their favourite. Resembling the extremes of their nature.

Our love is like a wind. I can't see it but I can always feel it.

People are strange when you're a stranger

I often tried to write about her. But I couldn't produce a line. I knew that if that first line would come, the rest would pour itself onto the page, but I could never make it happen. Everything was so sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start- the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless.