In two weeks, two worlds fell apart. Worlds that belonged to me, worlds I was an architect of. Worlds that tumbled my sanity and woke my dreams. Like all happiness , all meadows of sadness are personal, self-motivated and not to be touched. One creates pages of fiction and laurels of mystery with insomnia, without realizing how engulfing its claws are, how stagnant it becomes you and re-paints your eyes wide open. An objectivist hung on pathos, as a mode of escapade can crush sweet lemons for bitter ones, without qualms of conscience or regret. Each millisecond now would be a chronic weight on my frail existence. The apt synonym would be 'adios'.
Translating Tagore. Again.
1 year ago