It's been long since I've stolen bits of poetry from nooks and corners, and formulated one of my own. These cosy corners you see, hold petals of a thousand tales which had once blossomed to the dawn of hope and was fading away in the dusk of aftermath when oblivion proves its dominance in due course of time, and all you are left with is a film of rustic vintage encounters which paints the canvas of your life - sepia.
I usually get enchanted by how these walls tape tales in their own hushed voices. In an unsuccessful attempt to decode their enigmatic parlance, I stay there awestruck by the beauty it beholds. Maybe they are as intoxicated as you. Maybe they are a loyal listener to every secret revealed. Or maybe they are a beautiful mess of the deepest truths and the darkest lies. I'm curious that way, for I'd like to eavesdrop into every unknown tale, feel it, live it, close it and move on to the next one. These vintage films allure me to weave strings of every tale untold and voice unheard, and create one of my very own shade of sepia story.
I've gazed at the twilight at sunset and I've let the winds ruffle my hair and whisper all their tales. I've let myself get drenched in the downpour of ecstasy and I've sipped every last drop of exuberance under the veil of the moonlit sky. I'm selfish that way, for I satiate my soul till I sieze off the last essence of vibrance out of it. Forgive me for these words aren't worth your time but these cosy corners, they definitely are.