Beauty is the only human aspect which cannot be captured on any canvas howsoever hard an artist tries. At the most, the undaunted artist can replicate the beauty on paper but what is a replica in comparison to the original! The humbling resemblance can only be respected, not truly adored. 
Beauty cannot be imprisoned in the lens of a camera. The images of beauty are a moment of its essence. Beauty cannot be displayed to evoke pleasure for all on a cinema screen. Those are just its imprints, mere illusions of its existence. Beauty cannot be described by words; it cannot be written or read about. There are no suitable words in all the languages of the world, ancient or modern to hold it between a paper and a pen or a script and an eye. Beauty can only be experienced from far, its delightful aroma can only be tasted through one’s eyes and its pleasurable sight can only be felt from the soul.
Beauty can only be best described at its origin through a befuddling silence, the kind that leaves one almost on the verge of a pleasurable death, just because one chooses beauty over life. There is nothing in this world to hold something so pure, so divine except a loving heart. And it is the only manner through which love recognises love; the language of love has no alphabet, no words.

If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here… I wouldn’t be anywhere.

Trust is the base for all relations. If it breaks, then it’s not easy to rejoin. It’s very easy to say ‘I don’t trust you’, but the pain these words cause is immense.

Isolation, for him, had become a basic sine qua non for existence and loneliness, his sole companion like a perfectly faithful twin. He was someone for whom even happiness would cry for, mourning the death of his sentiments and murdering the existence of his soul.

It was going to be a long, dark night but not quite as dark as it was in the abyss of his heart where there was nothing but hollowness, yet it felt heavy, almost as if someone still resided there.

But when nothing in your life happens in a positive frame, it is difficult to think positively and hope for the best.

Love, he told himself, was open to interpretation like any other abstract indulgence but followed the same principles everywhere, irrespective of everything else. One, either won or lost in love, there was no bridge in between, and he decided he had lost, lost to himself, if not to her.

I wanted to wash away our past misgivings in those tears that would run from our eyes and weave a new start by folding her in my arms.
I wanted to, but I did not!

How could he maintain the apology in his eyes without getting carried away by her cherubic innocence?

My trust in you was like the small child’s; who, when thrown in the air, expects to be caught, but you dropped me down, and not a moan escaped my lips.

Grief embraced him and welcomed him back, showering tears upon his arrival.

Who would have listened to his tales of woe when his love was the flickering lamp over his own decaying tomb?

Beneath her curls, I forget the world,
With a mere gaze she raises my hopes of gold. 
Love is as much in her heart as in mine,
But she doesn’t say it, her punishment so divine.

What was he? A mere human, stuck between the rungs of blended adolescence and nascent adulthood. What power did he command over the mysterious forces of love? Which sword could shatter the impenetrable armour of desire?

It was not one folly that Shakespeare talked about. If Love truly is but a myriad of follies then I have committed them all, that can mean only one thing – I loved her truly, madly, deeply!

A lie that could help someone focus on his life was better than a hundred simple truths.

Love?' he asked himself, giving no sense of recognition for that word in the dictionary of his mind. It was the only battle he had lost in life, the only thing that had been snatched away from him, before he could even claim it.

The pain would not leave him. It came to him like the tide that hits the sea.

Perhaps that is the real surprise of love; it exists, but one may not attribute causes and effects to it. The existence may appear to be a mere fallacy to the minds of some, and by the time they realise what hit them, they would already be down and dead.

Silence has its own language and in that silence he found words within himself; words for her, words for him and words for them.

It was like watching a movie being played on the blank screen of his mind; the only difference was that he did not get bored, no matter how many times he watched it.

I didn't know that there was a thin line between ignorance and arrogance.

Fate, they say, fate- the clay that molds the events of your life, and it was the same fate that had thrown the stone of her heart on the building of his expectations. But then wasn't it his fault that he had constructed the building of glass? Hadn't he failed to cement the bricks of his love with trust and colour them with security? There was no insurance for broken hearts, no ointment for wounded souls and there would never be one, he knew.

There is not much left to see in this world if one sees her once.

That night it did not rain as much in the sky as it did in his heart.

It was as if he had known her for a long, long time and before he knew her, he knew nothing because he felt he had not existed then, life had been absent in his breaths.

There was only one four-lettered word having precedence over life itself and it was LOVE.

Her melodious laughter sounded like the distant tinkling of soft bells and he stored the sound in her temple- his heart.

The flush on her pale cheeks was like the blush of sunset on snow.