Pale blue is the colour of those who have lost everyone, and thus, found everything- all at once. The type of blue which is too weak to be reflected in one’s eyes and too soft to be captured; the kind of blue which makes people lower their gaze and feel sorry for you. Not like the royal blue which registers its presence, which gets reflected a thousand folds and yet succeeds in filling the room with its marvel. The blue which makes people lower their gaze by its magnificence; which hurts the watcher’s eye with its sheer beauty. On this specific day, my life decided to paint itself pale blue; and so here I was, putting the last brick in the wall between my beloved and I. “Is it going to be them, or I?” One couldn’t try and be gentler while knowing it was the last thread of the love they stood on- except her. Her words tend to spend more time in her mouth than in her head. “Aren’t they just an outcome of our love?” When I first saw her, I was smitten with her like a painter to its muse; and that’s all she had been all along, perhaps, just a muse. A painter is always more in love with the painting than the muse, it’s a never ending cycle of being in love with your work and being in love with the subject of your work. Its cruel to think of humans like mere shadows of your poetries, even though everyone does that, some just write on papers and some- some write on the subject itself. “You started writing for me, but somewhere along the lines, the words which you used to show your love, became the object of that very love.” It couldn’t be truer. I have to choose today, so she says, between my poems and her. It’s not like they have given me anything except agony, pain, and failure. But how do I tell her that I find more solace in the pain than in her comfort. I had to make the hard choice, so I chose. It’s true that I would die without her, and so I chose. “I am happy with it.” She nodded and smiled, expressing her approval. This was the second time I saw her this happy, the first was when we got together. This was the second time I turned away from her, the first was when I started writing. Expressing the pain of leaving her to the poems is easier than expressing the pain of leaving the poems to her. In this sad world filled with sad and miserable humans, the only thing separating the poets and the realists is the glorification of the pain. We don’t take inspiration from it, we find peace in it. I don’t know where my pain begins and I end, but we always walk together in sunny days, making it gloomy to write more, create more.