“A 100 years from now, who are you to be, reading me with curiosity?” ~ Rabindra Nath Tagore
If I could paint I would make a painting. Four walls and me, leaning on a corner, screaming. Scream till I lose my voice. Just scream. On the final day, when all of this will be over, I will have so much to say, to so many people, but I will no longer be able to speak. All my thoughts will just make one big mass of noise, a scream.
Thoughts bubbling up, but nothing left to say. Yet I am here to say, say it out loud. This life I lived without love, is scared, to die without love. Life you better be interesting, else you be short. Life you are getting too heavy, find it hard to carry, how far to go? When is it going to be over? I can’t wait to see what happens in the end. Broken heart, will you mend? I know it is going to be a reckless journey, we will bury every hope and dream, we will only carry this body of mass, blood and greed. We will put this body up for garbs, for vultures and hyenas to hog, but in the end a 100 years from now, will we win life?
Shh, speak not that way, for you are wonderful and charming, and you have come a long way. Life is what you make it so make the right choices. Be jolly and live every day. The blue ocean is calling you so is the open sky. There is so much to offer, why are you in dismay. Speak you shall not about sorrows and pain. You put up a happy face for the riches you want to gain. You cannot speak nor can look them in their eyes. Lies and filth and dirt is always on their mind. So you wear a happy mask, make them at ease, take what you need and set for the miles to tread.
In your one hand you have hope, the other one has dreams. You hold on to them tight, you will lose them still.