Scribbling
Tragedy of Wanderer:
“Moments, when words betrayed him, left him with nothing but
heart-rending nerves drowned in manipulated shadows built slowly and steadily,
a carefully built trap for self which was supposed to strangle self and now
when it does so he felt ashamed to scream, after all it was his own decision to
be led into decisive alleyways of lies and filth. We can lick our spit but we
can’t stand even slightest of smell of our lies. we have a natural tendency to
stay away from any confrontation which might lead to revelations of our deeply
rooted fear, distrust and insecurities; this lead him to paint his words white
and black, dipped in honey of colors, to hide the areas of grey which carried
what he desired to speak, but could not or just would not. It is not difficult
to understand the reason behind what made him feel sick now, is it?
Darkness was not so dark after-all, silence was not so
silent, chaos seemed no more chaotic, and desire of emotion was never desired
probably. It appeared as lifeless as those eyes filled with false promises. Let
the night win, let it laugh upon as triumphantly as in an orgasmic euphoria
while he looked for solace in words, and it denounced him as soon as he reached
for its hands. Oh! What could be more tragic than to be betrayed by words and
not knowing who failed whom. Alas!”
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