It was just a journey back to this soulful city again. But for some or other reason, everything seemed different and less colourful. This city has changed (may be the crowd) and become strange. All of a sudden, it’s full of borders and locks, and I am an intruder in a hostile home.
Thinking about colours, what I’ve learned is that they appear and disappear as well. And for every uttering remark of never and forever, it is life that’s going miserable. And about that dull painted canvas of love I feel like I may be the only one adding that bit of colour.
I simply wish I could go back to note down the shadows of each person passed by. To have that freedom to keep moving, as though this is not the place where I belong to, as though I don’t know these passing faces, as though I m here just to draw there caricatures, as though I even don’t know me, the actual me.
The journey of “conquering life” is probably over. The excuses have hit the level of tolerance, the philosophies were completely dissipated, the photographs even have faded & what left behind is a worn out me... Damaged and beyond repair...