Scribbling

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“In between all the noise, and whispers befalling yet finding no sound coming out of self, it felt being sort of sponge that absorbs all the water yet remains still. But for how long, for fiercer the flow of sound, heavier sponge would get and slowly it started feeling like being stuck inside. It was turning into self made prison that one mistook for a palace of solitude. All those noise waiting for an opportunity to pour out as a rain does through a leaking roof, causing great pain and suffering to inhabitants inside, for even getting drowned does not cause as much trouble as much to sleep in a corner like a dirty street side animal while droplets fall upon your skin as drops of acid. He felt it too, like a déjà-vu, he did not want to let those holes be exposed, and he wanted them to remain hidden, while doing everything to hold whatever came flowing in evil force. He felt it was no more sort of sponge, but was turning into a black hole, an entity which does not allow anything to escape, not even thoughts he felt. He imagined being trapped inside forever, for there was no escape anymore. He was to be consumed by self and to be vanished, just like that.”