Truth of my true stories

This post is from the past…, feelt it was a good para I worte so am just re posting it…

‘This is my truth’ was the theme of my blog. I started it coz there were, and still are, these times when I want to talk a lot about my life but no one to listen to…I thought I would share the bizarre truth of my life, which I think are stranger than fictions, but then where is the truth? What is my truth? What more is it than another sappy old story of love lost and heart break. Who doesn’t have these stories and then what the hell do I know about other’s story that I go about thinking my story is strange.

Truth

Truth is I don’t have a story.
Just some scattered scribbled sheets.
‘Is the glass half empty or half full’ they ask.
Truth is there is no glass,
just a heap of crackled earthen pots,
scattered petals,
twisted pencil skins,
few old photographs,
few old wrapping papers,
few old crumpled movie tickets
with the name of the movie goers
written on the back of it by me,
some office vouchers,
certain visions when i close my eyes,
certain sounds I suddenly hear,
certain smell I suddenly find familiar,
some broken dreams, some sleepless nights,
some premeditated coincidences,
some long phone calls
and the subsequent phone bills…
all passing by.

The train is moving fast. But I wish it was moving faster and faster and faster. So that all the bits and pieces of my eventful life passes by in such lightening speed that I don’t even have the time to recollect them and frame in my blog.

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