Scribbling:
:
“It was like any other night, but something was amiss, or
probably everything was there which was appearing a bit odd to him. He was all
too human after-all. We grow up accustomed to find something amiss in moments. We
are told to love our missing labyrinth, caress our scars and hold onto our
dreams and nightmares alike in the entire lullaby sung while the moon sways
away. What if there’s no labyrinth, no scar, no missing dream and nightmares;
what if all of it comes right in-front of our slumbering eyes beneath the star
ridden sky. We could discard them terming ourselves drunk but could we look
beyond them. Our tragedy does not lie is moments we choose to unsee-to let go,
it lies in moments we decide to see what lies there only to bring misery our
heart deserves being little weak in its attempts to grow, to rise beyond the
graves of lullabies, to look beyond dreams and find dead nightmares. Our tragedy
belongs to our heart being little weak in its inability to stand aloof and not tremble hearing its own footsteps,
behind pits of our slumbering eyes which were still pretending to be drunk, as
the night passed by.”
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