Hmmmm... Here I come out of my reverie in which I had been immersed for the past few days. It was almost as if, life was passing me by, and I was just a curious observer standing to one side as a torrent of unfelt emotions and unfathomable thoughts zipped past me too quickly for me to comprehend the cosmic signs.
A whole day of plans that were carefully planned, torn apart at the seams by someone whom I barely knew, from halfway across the world carrying a few blue stones a box of chocolates and sweeping a maiden off her dainty feet.
But the killer blow comes when you're caught in the eye of the storm. With nowhere else to run, nowhere to hide, all you can do is to face it stoically and hope the blow falls quickly. Painless. Clean. Swift.
But somewhere there will be tears falling silently. Someone else will say sorry. Gallows humor then becomes the only weapon to fight off moist eyes. Music becomes the emotional outlet. Physical activity becomes the vestige to waste yourself.
With nothing left to give anymore, you become the empty vessel. The one who shall never make another noise, another sound. But then again, empty vessels emit a clean pure note when struck.
The storm passes over. You realise, in the middle of nowhere, that the world has marched past as you stood watching, and you're standing in a desert with a soaked cloth. You wish the bear hug, that left you breathless an hour ago, or was it a lifetime ago, had done the job. But the closure is implicit in its absence. With the world back in balance, the mist starts swirling again, enveloping the countryside in its soft embrace.
They say, "Nothing you have not given away will ever really be yours.", and you wonder how the sour grapes story ever made sense.
A whole day of plans that were carefully planned, torn apart at the seams by someone whom I barely knew, from halfway across the world carrying a few blue stones a box of chocolates and sweeping a maiden off her dainty feet.
But the killer blow comes when you're caught in the eye of the storm. With nowhere else to run, nowhere to hide, all you can do is to face it stoically and hope the blow falls quickly. Painless. Clean. Swift.
But somewhere there will be tears falling silently. Someone else will say sorry. Gallows humor then becomes the only weapon to fight off moist eyes. Music becomes the emotional outlet. Physical activity becomes the vestige to waste yourself.
With nothing left to give anymore, you become the empty vessel. The one who shall never make another noise, another sound. But then again, empty vessels emit a clean pure note when struck.
The storm passes over. You realise, in the middle of nowhere, that the world has marched past as you stood watching, and you're standing in a desert with a soaked cloth. You wish the bear hug, that left you breathless an hour ago, or was it a lifetime ago, had done the job. But the closure is implicit in its absence. With the world back in balance, the mist starts swirling again, enveloping the countryside in its soft embrace.
They say, "Nothing you have not given away will ever really be yours.", and you wonder how the sour grapes story ever made sense.
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