There is an alternate world. A parallel universe. Running simultaneously as this one. Wherein we are our immaculate selves. And together. Sans the drama. No drama. Yeah, because I totally hate drama. I hate the costs we pay for wanting what we want and not getting it yet. In that world, we're designed to be absolutely who we wish to be. And we're happy. Definitely more content. And our throats are lump-less. Nights, our nights are gaps between lovey-dovey smoothly planned out days, when we wink at each other and take a nap. There's no hanging like a bat in public transport. No calamity. No nail biting death like slow sequences everyday. Most importantly, no heartache. In that parallel universe, we are the same. And everything else is just more perfect.

It's the drunken dream to see that alternate world that still sometimes makes me want to write. Despite the hazard that I have become.

Some tell me my writing has become illegible. It's not that I don't care. I think I must be somewhere between caring and not caring. Fast approaching towards making no sense. But what can we do. It just lets off steam. And writing comes cheaper, than other pernicious self destructive options.

I wonder if writing could buy me some sleep tonite. Right now, may be I am sleepy enough. To turn sides a couple of times and then snap out. But anyway. I make no sense. Nor do I intend to.

So why am I still writing this. Probably because, you're still reading this!