People make false promises of forever and always. They have wrong ideas about what love is. To one his own, yes, but one being merely intrigued by someone is not love. One wanting to fool around is not love. If you think I am the remedy to your already broken heart, trust me love, it’s not love.

The men I have been with haven’t had the slightest idea of who I really am… what I have to offer and what expectations I have. I do not pretend, but I am not an open book either. You have to patient with me.

I am wild, reckless; a waywardly mess of heartbreaks. I have an interminable appetite for adventure, experience and knowledge. I am naïve. I am fearless. I am greedy.

I am driven by the storm that is rioting inside me; a whirlwind of angst and romance, of starry nights on the terrace, of windy evenings and dimmed lights, a conflict between gentle churning of love and urgent aggression to satisfy desires. 

I’m indecisive. I keep alternating between left and right. I am not good at taking decisions. But I am impulsive. I take decisions. I end up doing something that I’ll regret later. I don’t always take the wrong path, but I’d repent it anyway- because if yesterday I’d had done it the other way, then maybe, just maybe, today would have been easier and I would have been happier.

With time, I learnt that being happy is the easiest thing when I already have all the right reasons. I learnt that people will come and go and I will live through it. Sometimes, smile through it, other times, cry. Because that is how you learn.

I have learnt everything works out eventually; it always does. Hurdles are overcome, but that tearing moment of choosing to let one thing go and take another up still gets to me. Of finally deciding what to take a chance on and what never to look back at; of what “will be” and what “could’ve been” – that is the moment that holds me down; that moment is what I dislike the most… when I feel the weakest.

I am probably made of only flaws but these flaws, these intricate flaws piled up one upon the other forming a kaleidoscope of ‘things gone wrong’- they make the person I am. They make me, me. They write my story, one chapter at a time. And like I said… I’m not an open book.

I’m an introvert spinning my tales around my own mind but I can only, only hope that one day instead of judging me based on what’s just there on the surface, they’d actually read and understand a chapter or two.

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