Shallow is a flowing river of life, Stagnant is the water and no truimph. Crisp are the colours it adores, Never comes a chance to – at the doors. The hue of life has become hollow. Darkness and loneliness that swallow. The shades have dried and crippled. The hue has become wild and toppled. Colourless is an aesthetic memory. River of life is standing by watery. Whilst some coding words of praise, Staggers life inside a hollow tube of no rise. Wintry days are longer with autumns. Risk of blinks of troubles in tonnes. On the floor, of an old wood dances life. The wood, old and shadeless, search a knife.
You grow up in four walls endeavouring to unite, to build a home for you. One day, synthesis happens, but the ceiling remains missing. So you construct a bivouac under the azure sky, moving it to umpteen places, reaching your adulthood as a wanderer.
Now that you're an adult, you pause the humdrum race of life, and play the song of soul searching. Suddenly, you stumble upon the empathy inside you, gazing at you like the stranger whose smile doesn't fade, until you smile back. So you learn this coercive smile. She walks hand in hand with you, making you absorb every thing you see, from a jovial child to a worn out man. You get drained, wearing so many shoes. Unknown emotions come and go everyday, but anxiety blooms like a creeper, fondling your skin.
"Why can't you just encircle around the periphery?" A voice reaches you amidst the cacophony. So you walk into the waters, wishing to swim, but you can't help drowning, wanting to reach the bottom. Everytime you try to swim, you fail. So you jump off the cliff of acceptance, falling into the hollow of self hatred.
Everyone you meet at the intersection, leaves no stone unturned to pull you out, just to push you deep inside the hollow. In the dark corner, you find therapies and meditation. You hold them in your palms, not wanting to let them go. But they fly away to a distant land, like every other visitor.
On a dark night, you sit in your balcony, holding a pen and a paper, as usual, wanting to contribute to the pile of suicide letters kept inside newspapers. Your eyes suddenly crawl towards the moon, and you see your soul shining from its surface. You turn staggered. "Maybe you're finally falling in love with yourself." Your empathy speaks, and smiles at you.
And as always, you smile back, but this time willingly.