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"Is this liberation ? " I muse, reclining upon the expansive and picturesque prairies, my gaze fixated on the night sky adorned with an abundance of stars akin to bioluminescent droplets. Observing the celestial waves flowing effortlessly in the galactic stream, I ponder, " Have I arrived at the coveted stage of serenity, the inner peace ?" Throughout my existence, I harboured no desire for stasis, to be confined within defined spaces, specific cities, amidst a particular company. For me, a dream, a passion represents emancipation- a liberation not solely from physical confines but from the chains within my psyche. I’m a human being, an entity breathing and pulsating with life, fortunate to be bestowed with existence. As long as I tread upon this earthly realm, my quest is to live by my dictums, guided by my unique principles, employing this distinctive mind of mine- this intellect with which I presently express and articulate. As the eminent thinker and scientist René Descartes philosophically proclaimed, " I think, therefore I am. " One particular destined day, it is meant for me to depart, set forth to see what’s in store for me, unravel the mysteries that await me, somewhere , everywhere. I feel it is not meant for me to be in a certain place for long. I belong to the winds, I’ve surrendered my soul to the drifting clouds long ago and entrusted my heart to the migratory birds until my return to reclaim what is rightfully mine. Spending a day wandering through the forsaken cities, endeavouring to listen to the tales the crumbling edifices wish to convey- the empty and desiccated wells, the relics of past lives left by people- broken refrigerators, rusting bicycles, and the abandoned and unfortunate toys of children- all yearning to speak of bygone days, of the days that are long gone but are not yet forgotten. While listening to these stories, reconciling with the reality of now, the present denizens of these towns- the coyotes, squirrels, rattlesnakes, wildness incarnate, and above all, the ghosts, and thus, ghost towns. Then, to spend the night in a Mexican carnival, dancing and singing amongst strangers in a diminutive town, absorbing the folktales narrated by the indigenous folk until dawn signals its arrival through the sweet melodies of chirping birds. Some days roaming in less-trodden places and alleys, talking to strangers, helping people, chirping, laughing, the other days, trying to decipher the language of the other cultures- visiting Temples, Mosques, Churches, Jinjas, Buddhist temples, synagogues, Sikh Gurudwaras and shrines- not to affiliate with any particular religion, but to capture the essence of human spirits within. I’m not structured in a way where I have a schedule to complete deadlines, have obligatory coffee breaks and need a break to even breathe. I desire to live my life my way - the way it ought to be originally- the way which I ordain for myself and nobody else. I yearn to soar, to sprint, to roam unburdened by the weight of the past, the commitments of the present, and the non-existent yet palpable anxieties of the future. I am a wanderer in heart and soul. As enchanting and mysterious as it may sound, it is an unconventional path, nearly impossible to tread. However, since my heart and soul have seized the reins of my existence, aided by the brain, I shall endeavour not to be swayed by conventional norms, irrational beliefs, and unhealthy societal standards. " The ones who wander are lost " is a common adage. I am lost . Lost in the rhythms of the celestial music that "graces" my ears. Lost to the harshness of the world, detached from the realities of this earth, and unaffected by the opinions of people. I value my way of life and have no wish for the bustling world to squander its precious time contemplating my existence. It's all but a fleeting moment- yesterday was ashes, today is a blaze, tomorrow a mere spark. Ultimately, I reach at my final destination- somewhere uncharted, a petite wooden abode, nestled at the heart of nowhere, honey-coloured armchairs, telling of the long passage of time, of the truth tends to be forgotten amidst bustling cities, somewhere in the nowhere of the Japanese countryside. The garden looks as if it's a blend of wilderness and civilization, creating a beautiful melody of the chirps of birds and the rustling of winds which leave the sweet yet sad scent of nostalgia. In a realm of nowhere, it becomes the haven for shattered and wounded souls, hearts that have endured the tortures of time and reality but cannot anymore, a sanctuary for recuperation, a shelter for the life remaining. This signifies the termination of both the journey of departing from the monotony of the known and the odyssey of experiencing the beauty of the unknown. This is home , my home. A home where I belong. As I lie upon the rustling prairies, harmonising with the symphony orchestrated by the chirping of the crickets and the gentle glow gifted by the fireflies in the serene stillness of the backdrop, the wanderer in me, the stargazer in me contemplates and tries to fathom, hear, sense the millions of stories untold of the aeons lost, of the ages swallowed, of the dreams absorbed in the vastness of the beautiful ballet above. To these whispers, I offer my reverence, my love , and declare, " Indeed, this is Freedom. " In the words of Walt Whitman, " Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me. " Image by lim chuan shin from Pixabay

Akira, a teenager is in conversation with the Angel-of-Death who is in the form of an old man. (A piece of Philosophical Literature) Why is it that I feel so oddly close to death? Is it something I want to avoid at all costs since I'm so afraid of it? Or do I yearn for it like a moth yearns for even a dim flash of light? What a mystery is death! Most people hate it and desire never to encounter it, but for some strange reason, my curiosity gets piqued whenever I see or hear about it. I want to know if it really is as horrible and terrifying as people make it out to be. Death is a subjective concept. Its semantics vary along with the varying situations, circumstances, causes and age of death. While patients who suffer from chronic illnesses typically see death as a release for all the suffering they endure throughout their lives, geriatrics would consider it as a peaceful destination that one reaches after a long and arduous journey of a life replete with agony and pain. Younger people would be terrified of it given how unknown it is, but because they tend to view things negatively, they imagine death to take the worst possible shape. When it comes to children, the most innocent of all human beings, they are usually taught by adults that it is something to be avoided, but they don't instinctively feel threatened by it. This often makes me wonder if death is really meant to be terrified of. Death gives life its purpose and significance. Sans any pain, there’s no happiness. Sans any suffering, there’s no love. Similarly, there is no life if there is no death. When our emotions are so intense, so fuelled with passion and fire, that we are unable to even articulate them for the fear of being burned or permanently scarred, we realise that language is but a tool for expressing what we can. The rawest feelings ever felt by humans are in some way or the other related to death and hence, inexplicable. These feelings are not temporal or palpable. Human emotions, including pain, sorrow, and even the simplest sensations such as getting goosebumps, are different variations of death's innumerable forms. Additionally, death is essential in order to let future generations enjoy their right to be born, cherish life and experience death, again, for the generations to come. I frequently wonder, “ Why do people crave the endlessness of life? The desire for this physical imprisonment, which is laced with never-ending moments of fleeting joy and hollow melancholy, greatly perplexes me.” Ironically, despite how often people claim to want to escape pain and suffering, we seem to invariably find ourselves at the receiving end of misery. Humans are, in fact, by now, accustomed, and acclimatised to sorrow and agony. We are confused, insecure beings who feel lacking in our mental environments when there isn't some hazy sense of poignancy always in the back of our minds. Humans are shown in their most bare, figuratively naked form, when they are without sadness, being completely open, totally vulnerable to the punishments and condemnations of the world. Death, for me, has always been a peculiar feeling of home . I can go back there after living a long and demanding life. It's a place, a state, or a circumstance that is unaffected, unperturbed by the ephemeral bitterness and transient sweetness of reality, of life, something that is always tranquil. It is free of all the ills of the temporal world, including all types of inequality, all judgements, commitments, disappointments, disillusionments, fetters of limitations, onus of expectations, responsibilities, as well as the feeling of fleeting attachments. Because death itself cannot pass away, it is beautiful. A sense that there is always going to be ‘something’ that will be constant and unchanging forever is what gives me melancholic and hopeless comfort. That there is a destination after all, that there is a place for all of us. It is reliable and worthy of our trust because it won't ever abandon us, or say, it can never abandon us. Alas, how ill the fate of Death is! It was rightly expressed by Oscar Wilde in The Canterville Ghost, “Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grass waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. ” To be at peace, finally, ultimately. (Part-2 of the series, "Questions of Doom") Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

Sadness is caused by intelligence, the more you understand certain things, the more you wish you didn’t understand them. -Charles Bukowski It is a widely acknowledged fact that intelligence and sadness share a direct relationship. The more intelligent a person is, the keener their observation becomes. The heightened observation causes profound self-awareness. The more self-aware, the more self-destructive the person becomes. This all worsens when the person carries the bane of remembering every detail of the past, the burden of an excellent memory. For individuals empathetic by nature, this burden intensifies the pain. You see the dimensions of changes happen within yourself due to that ‘one’ instance, that one experience. Instances of such a type aid you in your destruction by making you self-aware to the point where you feel you are just a version of others. You start feeling that you are not special anymore, that everyone else is essentially plagued by the life they’re living. The more intelligent you are, the more profoundly you fathom that everyone else is trying as hard as they can to make sense of the existence they’ve been forced to experience and entertain. This realisation breeds empathy, recognising the shared humanity in the struggles of others since they all are parts of you made of the same atoms, the same elements, the same dust. Thereon, you cannot continue the petty enmities or enviousness you felt before. You try as hard as you can just to stay afloat, just to stay alive, donning that excellent mask of yours. You don’t feel superior to anyone, instead, you feel like you are a minuscule insignificant being bestowed with a tragically coincidental existence. One might contend that even though we’re non-existent beings on the face of earth, yet those stars, those planets, those comets, they are also as small and as insignificant as we are to them. Nevertheless, you are constantly stuck in this rut, in this dilemma where you can’t help but question every minute of your existence. You try to find people who share a similar plight as you in the hope of seeking solace in their companionship, only to find it draining, so you start humourising your hopeless situation, it’s all in the mind after all. You don’t fear death, you don’t fear life, you fear the daily mundaneness that comes along with life, you fear the uncertainty that looms around every minute of yours. You fear Time. I fear Time. This heightened awareness, a double-edged sword, compensates for the obliviousness of others, yet robs one of peace, plunging them into restless hunger and an eternal search for oneself. Aristotle’s aphorism, ‘The more you know, the more you know you don't know,’ reverberates with painful resonance. You start wishing for the time when you did not understand things so profoundly, when you were not this vulnerable, when your life was not this convoluted, when you were “you.” However, the inevitability is what one knows somewhere but cannot ever be completely aware of.  You understand the world a tad better, the universe little better but at the cost of your own feelings of self-worth, at the cost of your own blissful ignorance. No wonder Thomas Gray in Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College wrote, “No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.” It is like a contagion effect, one bad thing leads to another worse thing. First off, one gets the feeling that one exclusively gets to experience transcendental things while others are simply squandering their time undertaking futile tasks. At a later stage, one thinks that it’s better to stay alone since one is above others in terms of emotional and contextual intelligence. Lastly, as Carl Gustav Jung put it, “If a man knows more than others, he becomes lonely”, one succumbs to a bleak acceptance of perpetual doom and loneliness. The solution as Osho proposes lies in accepting and embracing a balance of  folly and wisdom, "A little foolishness, enough to enjoy life, and a little wisdom to avoid the errors, that will do." Image by Claudia from Pixabay

In the realm of academia and life in general, my outlook remains tempered by past encounters, leading me to set expectations so low that I envision worst-case scenarios, reaching a point of apathy. While my demeanour may exude calmness and confidence, the sheer absence of fear, by the end, raises concerns. My anticipation of university life, shaped and somewhat conditioned by cinematic and online influences, proves to be just the tip of the iceberg. In acknowledging my imperfections, I perceive myself as a flawed yet decent individual, expecting a similar standard from my peers. Life's intricacies, however, unfold as I grapple with the reality and complexity of human behaviour, the conflagration of rumours, and the ease of manipulation of both the person and their utterances, unintentionally finding myself entangled in such strange and complex dynamics. Statements such as, "Shorts are too short" carry humour, while also shedding light on the deeply ingrained biases within our minds. Here, we have perpetually engaged in the timeless games of Chinese Whisper and Russian Scandal. Unravelling the complexities of relationships, the true meaning of gossip, and the existence of real-life gossip-mongers expose the darker facets of college life. The prevalence of crimes, hypocrisy, betrayal, and an ironic want of “justice, equity, and good conscience” become stark realities. It remains beyond my understanding how individuals labeled as criminals, victims, and mere observers coexist in a particular space, all the while maintaining an excellent facade of normalcy. How ironic we all are to be in a profession that preaches itself on the basic foundation of “justice” and how often we find ourselves ironically preaching principles that we conveniently neglect in practice. No one knows what the truth is, however, no one even puts any effort into finding the truth as well. Together, we constitute the wrongdoers and embody hypocrisy. Anything “alleged” has to be ascertained. That is the tenet. The mere thought of someone actually being in such pain every Day, every Minute, every Second while managing the daunting and exhausting academics and other commitments, renders my heart and face pale. The mere thought of seeing the Wrongdoer, the Evil-doer, the Sinner, every day, can be traumatic, emotionally destroying and mentally wrecking for the victim. Yet, we remain indifferent! Why bother? It's not our concern. We'll maintain our silence, as is our custom, exhibit the bystander apathy, and only raise our voices when a crime hits close to home. Until then, hush! And the cycle goes on! The Great Karmic Cycle. We are Law students, the future flag bearers of justice, the upcoming leaders, the eventual purveyors of the basic structure of the Constitution of India and most of all, the basic human rights, yet we are the ones who keep quiet when our voices are so crucial, even if its just a “But” or a “No”. We are the future Captain Indias. Yet we are the ones who inflict insults, humiliate people, make them feel unwanted, thrash people’s confidence, yet we are the ones who are the biggest hypocrites. Amid the collective pretence of inclusivity and acceptance, the darkness within our hearts surfaces. The wise counsel, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," rings hollow amidst our actions. The search for a "Safe Space" eludes those who navigate life in the guise of alternate identities without refuge. Why do we harbour such disdain for our own kind, connected by the simple fact of birth, bound by shared sentience and the capacity to feel and exhibit passion? In this intricate dance of words and deeds, let us revisit the foundational principles of the Constitution of India and the essence of human rights. Embrace the beauty of inclusivity, shunning toxicity, and extend empathy to those who, under the weight of societal judgments, seek sanctuary here, in this part of the Universe. Let our collective awakening dissolve the silence and give voice to those who have long carried the unspoken yoke of pain, reflecting the poignant echoes of the victims' suffering. The bitter experiences seem to outweigh the positive moments, leading me to desire the boon of emotional detachment, the absolute lack of sentience, after all. It must feel at ease to not be able to feel or see anything, to not carry the bane of observation eternally, the curse of not being able to forget anything and everything swiftly, like it never happened. Besides these, the hollow elitism, formation of cliques, and the penchant for drama are surprising revelations, challenging my prior naivety. The rapid shifts in people's attitudes and the dangerous practice of flipping create a warped perception of the need for constant people-pleasing and external achievements, diverting from life's fundamental purpose of simply living. Just living, doing what you want and what is right. Observing the isolation and the mere hopelessness of victims and the irony within the educational system, with biassed knowledge bearers and unfair standards, has been an ongoing theme over the past months. While not a new revelation, it continues to be a prevalent issue I've witnessed throughout the years. And here I linger, in solitude, penning down the same words, repeatedly, and yet again. Ah, no, I should shut up as I’ve a reputation to protect for my future placement and for the life that I’m going to live pretending to be the Great Purveyor of Justice. - Future Lawyer (Pronunciation- L-i-a-r/Sounds like lai·uh) from heart and soul! Certain Images from Pixabay

An Interior Monologue by Akumu (A piece of Literature) After only an hour of sleep, I feel as though I've just been jarred from a restful sleep. A permanent nap. A slumber for life. I feel as though I've been sleeping this entire time. Everything was a long, drawn-out dream with all the elements that a nightmare typically entails, with nothing of it being genuine. Sometimes I find myself in some other universe receiving a death sentence for some strange reason, and other times I'm just desperately running, running away from "something." Why are my dreams never as tranquil as a body of water with no ripples? What is it, in my subconscious, that causes me eternal suffering? What is it that I can’t cure myself of, that I can’t escape myself from? I desire to know what awaits me on the other side of life. What are those things that I’m running away from? Every sleep I take, every dream I experience, and every reality I hold to be true are all somehow connected at some point. I don’t believe in past lives and reincarnations, but I also wouldn't say I wish to fully reject the idea that they exist. I need to know my origin, the origin of my Atman (Indian term for one's spirit), my soul. I want to know about all the lives I’ve lived, all the deaths I’ve suffered, all the crimes I’ve committed, all the kindness I’ve shown, all the pathways I’ve chosen and all the decisions I’ve made that have led me till here, here at this particular juncture of time and place. What a marvel it would be to understand one's entire existence and be able to decipher the code encoding the purpose of one's presence in this world. I believe that these dreams are the final bridges linking me to my consciousness and to myself. What an ironic situation, huh? The only difference between the dreams and the nightmares is a shift in viewpoint. These dreams, even though most of the time leave me restless enough to get me writing about them, are the only things that I still feel a connection with. I constantly feel as though I am without something or that a part of my soul has been lost to the ways of the world. My search for that missing piece has taken me to an unfamiliar location full of unusual people, strange situations, and stranger things still. Funny how now I'm lost along with the missing component. When I first woke from the illusion of sleep, as lost as I already was, I got into a conversation about how parents are left alone during their most vulnerable years, the dreadful old age, a stage that, despite being inevitable, is still so feared by the general public due to the feeling of utter helplessness that comes along with it. The same clichéd situation occurs: parents grow old and want to depart for their final journey from their home country only, but their children are unable to care for them because of the ill-fate of human beings of not having enough time for as long as one is here on this Earth, the misfortune of always hustling to reach somewhere, fulfil obligations, earn, feed, to simply survive. The real issue, though, is "Whose fault is this all really?"Are the kids to blame for prioritising temporary obligations over the parents who have essentially devoted their entire lives to raising them? Or are the parents at blame for expecting too much from their active and already worn-out kids? How meaningless life really is, don't you think? People arrive, they live (and, more often than not, suffer), and then they pass away separated from their loved ones, believing that the circumstances were a betrayal. What the affliction really is about is the blessing and curse of becoming attached to people. We are not what they refer to as God, and despite how wise we already are, we are bound to pluck the Forbidden Fruit, we are destined to make the regretful but legendary error of becoming emotionally connected, to people, things, places, timelines, and even universes. (Part-1 of the series, "Questions of Doom") Image source: cdn.pixabay.com

Kindness, such a simple word, yet it contains all of humanity, all of the world. I frequently ponder whether people have always been this self-centred and self-interested. I don't expect people to be absolutely kind as they cannot be and shouldn't be because if they were, who would be the Lord above us? I see versions of myself hurting and inflicting pain on other versions of themselves. The mere expectation I have is of humans to simply care about other humans. It pains me hugely to see the red splash of hatred everywhere, all around me. Regardless of what the purpose of our existence is, of what our desire is, of how important some things are for us, we never have the right or reason to hurt anyone, any species. We, humans, think we are the supreme beings who are entitled to everything under the sun. We are the ones who hurt and betray even our own skin and kin, let alone strangers. We are not the only ones with life to protect, to live. We are not the only ones with people whom we love, whom we hold to be above everyone else, even above God. Life is not just our right. What prompts us to think of just ourselves? Since ages, it has been a well-known fact that humans come alone and depart alone, what accompanies them are just the memories, the memories of all the good and bad that have been done by them. Prioritising one's family over others is acceptable, but it is never acceptable to do so at the expense of others. What perplexes me is the sheer insensitivity people show at times, the brutal tactless attitude all around in the surrounding. We never know which barrier of breakdown or the urge to end things the person in front of us has crossed just a night before, seeing just the face. One of the most convincing masks ever created is a face. The battle scars on one's spirit, the crust of eye boogers left behind after an enormous torrent of tears have flowed from one's eyes, or the wrinkles from the excessive sleep used as a diversion from the world's apathy cannot be seen by others. Being unaware of someone else’s pain is not a sin but not even trying to be aware, is. What we, the humans, can at the very least do is just be a tad more patient, a little more empathetic, a bit more human after all. When it comes to the profound and vulnerable emotions of people, the most complicated beings of all, ignorance is not a bliss. We say things that could pierce someone's heart like a dagger does, do things that could shatter the fragile glass fortress of the illusionary calm inside their heart, and make gestures that could render someone numb because of how excruciatingly painful they are. Because of this interconnectedness, everything we do has an exponentially greater impact on someone else and ultimately has an even greater impact on ourselves. Although bodies are mere mortal frames, souls are not. Souls are fragile and delicate pieces. It is generally believed that whatever we do eventually comes back to us. To me, though, this idea seems a little odd. In order to avoid future issues, we are taught to be polite and even a little selfless at times. However, the only motivation for this is self-interest. We do acts of charity, loads of philanthropic work, do rituals, read sermons, preach ethics and so much more just to make that “Supreme Being” happy so that it favours us in our times of trouble thus, doing it all for our ultimate self-interest. Do we humans lack the capability to feel purely and selflessly? Are we in-built to be selfish? There has to be someone, somewhere, thinking of someone, for someone from a heart as pure as a bird's passion for flight and as unadulterated as a whale's determination to navigate waves as colossal as a mountain. That person would be the one who will know the raison d' être of life without even realising it. It would come like a gentle breeze, departing as though it never arrived, as if it never existed and would stay with us for the rest of our lives like a scent, the beautiful yet deeply painful fragrance of nostalgia. Their gaze will mirror the serenity of a flowing galaxy, their deeds as primal and aiding as our intrinsic breathing mechanism, and their words as comforting as the twilight's song. Aspire to embody that person, that comforting celestial being. Be that person rather than trying to find one. Plato said, "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle."

What is it to not be fitting in? To be that black sheep of the entire family of humans. Who is she, one might ponder? Why is it that she can’t display her emotions to the extent that people start feeling she is emotionless? To display vulnerability is to expose a heart susceptible to torture, to shattering, a realm which she dares not to traverse. Comfort eludes her in the divulgence of emotions, it is not convenient for her to acknowledge the little efforts people put towards the relationships they share. Words are not enough and convenient for her to express, to convey the depths of the sentiments she feels or wants to communicate, and that is a major flaw of hers yet unfortunately beyond her power to control it. Conveying the dread she feels at the prospect of her Life’s Roots departing, leaving her to navigate this callous, cruel and endless world alone, is akin to describing a sharp and poisonous sting of a Cobra. The guilt from her hurtful words to her birth-giver haunts her, a hollowness which she cannot fill, the tears of sadness which she cannot dab. Her past's ignorant transgressions, irredeemable wrongs, echo through her very being, her very soul. How can she articulate the agonising depths of her being when she witnesses others' suffering? The abysmal abyss of torment she plunges into is unfathomable, the cavernous and gaping hole she finds herself every time in is incomprehensible, a multitude of deaths endured as she witnesses parents, children, and innocents in travail- how can she articulate all of that after all? She is a human, a weak one? Torture seizes her spirit- the gripping and cold hands of pain squeeze her heart until its all red everywhere- at the sight of the guileless, toiling and travailing for those akin to her, burdened by privilege they scarcely deserve. To elucidate the shame that bows her gaze at a humble elder's meagre repast and restless slumber is a daunting task which she dares not to undertake. Shame for the impotent youth of her generation gnaws at her; a confession of inadequacy. Alas, despite triumphs and attainments, an irksome truth remains— she cannot rescue all deserving souls, a perpetual ache in that weak heart of hers. It’s all a game of genes- of luck- after all. No soul, no human, no matter how deeply they delve, how profoundly they traverse to understand her, the pain within her, can fathom these sentiments, and thus she vehemently asserts her entitlement to such claims. She is flawed, yet the scales of wrongs against her also tilt. She embraces the agony, for she acknowledges the sins of her past. She accepts the punishment as just, for that is her Karma and only hers. She has the right to all these suffering which no one has the duty to understand. In truth, we are mere insignificant and self-serving beings, traversing a harsh, cruel and capricious existence. Life persists regardless of one's grievance, an unfair truth etched into the very birth of humanity and every creature that walks this temporal stage. Contrary to all she has uttered, a perverse and twisted gratification lingers within her—for once in this eon, the wrongdoer, she, faces retribution, the wrath of Karma, of the ultimate truth in the armageddon of humanity. She relishes this torment, this guilt, this pain, this regret, this numbness, for they serve as her penance for wounding those she holds dear. The pain is embraced, accepted, revered and in its throes, she finds a twisted solace, a peaceful tornado. Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay

Within her, something is weeping, shouting, and crying out in agony— an anger so intense and crimson that it could overpower the hue of blood. What is this? Why does it exist? Is it a sense of hopelessness, sorrow, or surrender to everything, to life? Adorned with an exquisite facade, fooling everyone, she returns to her room, confined like a small cubicle— dim, stifling, and, above all, desolate. Fatigued and drained from the unintended deceit she has caused, her eyes portray a bleak darkness akin to a hollow ravine. Taking a perch on her bed, she contemplates how to cover her course in the week to come. Ironical, isn't it? How uncertain she feels, how absurd and irrational her mind has become, pondering so far ahead, unsure if she will even remain on this earth to witness the sunrise the next day or is she in search of an excuse to pass time? She resembles a shattered glass awaiting the final blow, the final touch with the floor. Her tragedy is a captivating sight— the fragments of her delicate heart scattered on the pavement, looking enchanting, reflecting the moonlight's rays. Lying on the ground, she reflects on the past, a time when she was oblivious to the darkness that pervades this Earth— unmindful of life's sombre realities, indifferent to the future's uncertainties. A tear of the shade of moonlit saltwater flows down her cheeks like a river lost on its journey to the ocean. Is she shedding tears, or is it her soul that weeps? Weeping— oh, how consoling it is. She weeps for hours, validated by the cold, watery floor. Slowly rising as the burden on her heart lightens. Leaning on the nearby table, she gains her footing. A sensation less agonising, less piercing, less biting now touches her. She weeps as she gazes at her fractured reflection in the mirror of her life. Her eyes shine like a radiant and luminescent ravine, holding that one flicker of light that still remains, her nose as red as a parakeet's beak, and her cheeks tinted pink as if pinched forcefully and severely. A faint smile still graces her face, clutching onto that last ember of hope with all her strength and will. As fatigued as she was, she leaves the support of the table and stands upright. Packing her bag, fastening her shoes, securing the dishevelled locks, she steps out of her room, she ventures forth to confront the reality of her existence with the mask back on as inadvertently as it sounds. Ah, how lovely, how beautiful, how true these lines by Robert Frost are after all, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.” Image by Perlinator from Pixabay