02.23 PM

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.

I write.

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.

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