As a human, we tend to believe in shapes and sizes. We condemn the idea of shapelessness, be it love, faith or ethics. We love, we lure things who have got a shape or structure. A body which can be identified even with closed eyes. The synthetic tactile sensation of a form, live or dead is way more stimulating than the very existence of a verbal belief which has only been existing in stories of people. Its the battle of my imagination which rages to retain the bound form, be a poetry or photograph. May be that’s the reason I fall in love with the smell of a new or old book from the library, it’s the touch of the photo paper which awakes me more than the online uploads. I wonder if I could ever give a shape to my love. My poetry is not enough. The photo paper is too less to paint. I need a new mold to shape all my love and adherence else the recognition will never get registered.

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