I write, for I am a hopeless romantic.
Because my mind lives in a factory of fantasy. I romanticize things as mundane as handshake in introduction. I recreate little scenes in my mind, showered by flower petals and stardust.
And I read between the lines. I seek sentimental meanings over straightforward words and I record them all. I play those again and again, as I lay my head down stack of pillows, as lullaby.
Because despite my cold shoulders and sharp tongues, despite my unfriendly stares and absence of smiles on lips with constant pout,
I am a hopeless romantic after all.
And this world is not for the hopeless romantics. So I invent another sets of ears and eyes for me to share these things with.