By Lot..

like dust, 

wiped off that surface,

washed in a pool of tears;

you gleam.

--

Irony..

The agony of life is, 

we're on the same side of the river 

and 

the river.. 

just dry ...

--

Listen.. There’s A Loud Silence..

Someone said that the most basic thing one to connect with another person is to listen.. 

A patient ear, and a little attention is all someone would want.. It calms the other person more than any words of comfort … 

At times some don't understand why this attention is required, reason being it could be the only moment someone has…

Time and attention is a boon.. some get it without asking, some die longing for it.. 

--

Ab Unnamed Road..

A day to remember, is all I have..

A morning full of me is all what's left..

The day is long, the night too dark...

My sight.. short... My prayers.. unheard.. 

Sometimes, we might be too close...

But the distance within, is too large...

What on other days, is just a convoke..

Sometimes, is a cry, unanswered...

--

What’s There To Fathom..

It's Just, 

Somebody's Joy ..

Another's Suffering..

--

Down And Out..

It's true, 

There are no words, words and words anymore.. 

There are no ups, no downs and no middle ground.. 

There's just silence and it's not around, it's within .. 

 

So much so that had Tolstoy not felt it, I would never have ended up quoting any of it.. 

'My life came to a standstill. 

I could breathe, eat, drink and sleep, and I could not help doing these things; 

but there was no life, for there were no wishes the fulfilment of which I could consider reasonable. 

If I desired anything, I knew in advance that whether I satisfied my desire or not, nothing would come of it. 

Had a fairy come and offered to fulfil my desires I should not have known what to ask. 

If in moments of intoxication I felt something which, though not a wish, was a habit left by former wishes, in sober moments I knew this to be a delusion and that there was really nothing to wish for. 

I could not even wish to know the truth, for I guess of what it consisted. The truth was that life is meaningless.'

- Leo Tolstoy