Another day has started, and I don’t know what I want today. There is this eternal desire to let people know of my existence. Let them know what I know and let them see the wisdom through my words.
But I don’t speak when it comes to it. I speak in this room, to you but never to them who need to hear.
For my world is anonymous to the rest, I linger in few thoughts for days where constants are lesser than variables, later they submit to the limits of memory.
I read few posts on a WordPress blog. Another writer, another world. I read sincerely. Poems and prose. I saw attempts to make sense. I applauded in my head but soon it all fizzled. Once again, I was filled with great passion to carve a new poem but also felt fiercely bereft of words.
It often comes fleeting, this feeling of being lost in the ordinary. All the stories are written only if characters are unnerving or heroic in their ways, or if their blood is royal or deeds are. I end up measuring the extents of my insignificance.
In a way, I just wait everyday for an opportunity. I see the path only a little ahead of me. I can tell you that I am moving and wish that you’d be satisfied, but how can you be? You are me.
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