It is the memories, is it?
Those beautifully, horrible, embarrassed events that we don't talk about, but always remember deep down in our heart and consider them as memories. But do they really contain any beauty within them?
They haunt us down, at times we are not prepared to surrender at all.
Memories, what are memories at all?
Can they really fill all of these pages with ink the way it has outspaced happiness from our hearts.
How amazing these memories are, they tear us into thousands of pieces, as if we are papers produced a hundred years earlier and these memories try to bind these torn up papers with that of different objects, with glue or tears made of sea water. But how do we collect some memories for life?