I can’t feel grey.

No matter how much black tries to be white, it’ll never see grey.

Calling yourself an extremist is a very tough job these days. Either people will find you very arrogant or they will judge you on your perspective regarding tits and bits of this world. They may also refer you to a chameleon or a pregnant woman fighting with mood swings. But, it is way more complicated than what you expect it to be.

You may find me at a random cafe with an overloaded plate, stuffing my mouth to the fullest and the very next day on a hospital bed getting glucose injected in my body. Oh god, why? Because I starved myself for a day.

I will ask you to wake me up at 7 in the morning. You will try everything from screaming in my ears, snatching my blanket, to even putting a bucket of water on my head, but will end up listening to my snores (only if I do that). But, the very next day starts with my insomniac period of life.

My heart will love you very hard, with all its pieces and intensity that you might fall for me. You would be receiving ‘good morning’ messages and ‘good night’ kisses. If not, it will hate you passionately that you might want to die that very moment.

I like to pick people in a crowd. You may be a friend to whom I can sing stories of my life. I can call you at 2 am and talk till 4. Else, you may be a stranger. No matter how many times you call, I will hardly pick any. The word ‘acquaintance’ never exists in any part of my dictionary.

I would be reciting a nursery rhyme in corridors dancing like a toddler ‘When you’re happy and you know, clap your hands…’ or sitting on a chair in a black short dress arousing the audience as I speak about lust.

Not a psychopath, just a dreamer. I allow myself to do whatever strikes my mind. I can’t help if it is painted monochrome. I can’t feel grey. I never did.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.