Why do we live and why do we die? What is the purpose we strive to live for?
In all the rush to make the ends meet and touch expectations, the purpose now hides behind the termite devoured almirah which has history of rickety squabbles and intense passion. Why do we not dust out the one thing that emanates the fragrance of our vague dreams and hopes? Is there no way we can complete the painting and this time with colours reared by the toil of our sweat and sweetness of our breath. Only if our ambition had weaker fuel and our earnestness a sharper edge.
The winter morning struggles against fog as I take the brown forest road to visit my old friend, the old Gulmohar tree. The rough bark feels like silk to my palm as I sit there trying to recall the middle stanza of a Bangla "Chora" Maa recited as she fed us morsels of Loochi.
No song, no tale can soothe my tantrum ravaged heart. Solace I find nowhere. Today I will pull out my rusty dreams of a life I built like a pyramid of cards and let the excuse survive.
In all the rush to make the ends meet and touch expectations, the purpose now hides behind the termite devoured almirah which has history of rickety squabbles and intense passion. Why do we not dust out the one thing that emanates the fragrance of our vague dreams and hopes? Is there no way we can complete the painting and this time with colours reared by the toil of our sweat and sweetness of our breath. Only if our ambition had weaker fuel and our earnestness a sharper edge.
The winter morning struggles against fog as I take the brown forest road to visit my old friend, the old Gulmohar tree. The rough bark feels like silk to my palm as I sit there trying to recall the middle stanza of a Bangla "Chora" Maa recited as she fed us morsels of Loochi.
No song, no tale can soothe my tantrum ravaged heart. Solace I find nowhere. Today I will pull out my rusty dreams of a life I built like a pyramid of cards and let the excuse survive.
