Sane

"You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one."

                             (Extracted from "The Picture of Dorian Gray", Oscar Wilde)

Love sucks on you like a leech. Lives on you like parasite. You get up every morning anticipating the butterflies that shall flutter in your tummy; little do you foresee the hurricane that shall sweep away your beautiful yellow-blue-pastel butterflies and leave behind giant, monstrous moths.

This happens repeatedly, over a period of time. Years go by, and you forget what the butterflies felt like.

They blame you for seeing through them. They don't know its a wall, a barricade, a lock out procedure. You're no more vulnerable.


You no longer shall fall in love, ever again.


Time heals all wounds, they say.


You are happy again. Or content at least.

You have lost what they labelled as "impulse", "extremism", "insanity". You are quite normal.

You like everyone. You may dislike some.

But never hate.

Or love.

Those are the extremities you are now alien to.