The colours of life for me are hued in wonderfully varient shades. The party bagan some day in the mid of 1980's . The eyes wide open with wonderment and amazement . The days were cooler , life was cozy and comfortable. The garden had many flowers with breeze gushing over it. The sweet fragrance overshadowed the whole life. Those were the days with just no commitments and full of fun and frolik.
Days passed by , responsibilities changed . Failures were more than notable successes. Life had its twists and turns. The dark alley of the mind hovering into the uncharted annals of complexity had its toll . The life ahead seemed to be dark and bleak.
As seasons change , so do the courses of life . Hardly do we conceive the future that is waiting in hushed silence , to present us with the precious gifts of life.
A good story , not so well told has its charm of keeping the readers engaged in the premonition of another effort to script the poerty. The poetry of life is a personal song of every individual. We are caged in the world of our own . We all have our untold stories.There may not be takers for that. But trying to push forward one's own story is always a very enchanting experience. You are scripting your life's tales. Its just an act of ponderous reminescence. It has its own tune and melody.It may be rich in rhetoric conveying very little practicality. It may be a process of self discovery. It may be a soliloquy . It is a lifelong serendipity. It may be a torrid love affair. It may be streams of sorrow. It may be self-revolution.It may be a bunch of repeated stupidity.
Whatever it may be , its one's own tale. It is overtly autobiographical. For me , it is the greatest , poetic pause taken in my life .I stand at the shore , watching the birds return to their nest , the boat moored on the banks of the tossing river , the clouds hanging from the distand west . The rain might gush down in torrents , but nothing can deter to make my story being told. I dont expect my friends to listen to my story. I just want you , my dear , my companion to listen to my kind of music.
Days passed by , responsibilities changed . Failures were more than notable successes. Life had its twists and turns. The dark alley of the mind hovering into the uncharted annals of complexity had its toll . The life ahead seemed to be dark and bleak.
As seasons change , so do the courses of life . Hardly do we conceive the future that is waiting in hushed silence , to present us with the precious gifts of life.
A good story , not so well told has its charm of keeping the readers engaged in the premonition of another effort to script the poerty. The poetry of life is a personal song of every individual. We are caged in the world of our own . We all have our untold stories.There may not be takers for that. But trying to push forward one's own story is always a very enchanting experience. You are scripting your life's tales. Its just an act of ponderous reminescence. It has its own tune and melody.It may be rich in rhetoric conveying very little practicality. It may be a process of self discovery. It may be a soliloquy . It is a lifelong serendipity. It may be a torrid love affair. It may be streams of sorrow. It may be self-revolution.It may be a bunch of repeated stupidity.
Whatever it may be , its one's own tale. It is overtly autobiographical. For me , it is the greatest , poetic pause taken in my life .I stand at the shore , watching the birds return to their nest , the boat moored on the banks of the tossing river , the clouds hanging from the distand west . The rain might gush down in torrents , but nothing can deter to make my story being told. I dont expect my friends to listen to my story. I just want you , my dear , my companion to listen to my kind of music.
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