Extracts from a past life

15 Feb


Silent victims of expectation are the nomads. Social rules dictate inane happiness, whistling their trail down a wily road, free from regret, immune to nostalgia or hardened against loss. Only those left behind have the luxury of such comforting thoughts. Every departure is heart wrenching. Painful and conflicted, every raw nerve carries the memory of a past life. Every movement rips and tears, writhing until exhaustion, weak stumps abandon the struggle. They hang limply, urging for home, helpless against the unrelenting tide of minutes carrying them forcefully towards the inevitable future. Every departure is a death. Every death is a rebirth. In the bracing darkness of the blind, be still my heart I plead.


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