Its not pain that provides pleasure , it's the idea of staying smaller than the true existence that provides comfort..
blindingly heading in a direction, building a pseudo thatch of weaved ,complex mesh of threads..
It's gathering noises around , too loud and too deafening , drowning the only voice that reminds one of the existence..
a drop of sunshine,
on a misty day ,
under the purple haze of orange edged clouds,
unfolding a new chapter,
blowing life into a dead night,
a puppet in the hands of nature?
beautifully designed to create a mirage,
could u then read the silent transformation,
of helpless change?
eloquently decorated,
perfect?
following a certain pattern of change..
again and again?
confessions of nightly secrets whispered into the ears of a new day...
