This work is a paradox. It screams about love, yet it bleeds inside. It is a living disaster walking with grace. It is where love and hurt meets in a comfortable space. It is everything he thinks he knew about himself, but he didn't.
It is the most awaited scene, yet it didn't make it. A fine phrase of desire better left unsaid. The knife he holds has a sharp tongue that runs him red. The gun with its bullet aiming for the shooter's head.
It is born out of many things: countless sleepless nights and cold, underdog days; bittersweet tears and smiles on my cheeks; stolen glimpses and clandestine meetings; sweet revenge and empty promises.
A nail in the coffin. A bottle of regrets. A mouthful of liquor drowning my head.
A failed attempt. Unanswered requests. Here lies the frustrations on a well-designed grave.
It is a beautiful dream, until it wasn't.
Sweet dreams, beautiful nightmares.
