This is a poetry. I had written this when I had finished my graduation and gone my college last night. That day, we all batchmates met for the last time and wished each other for the better future. That was the last day, when we all were together. At the midnight, I wrote few words. These words are still precious and I’m blogging them at the request of one of my Internet friends. Here it is……..
This is what I wanted and this also is what I never wanted to be happened. This is like holding closer and letting it break apart. Like you felt that few drops of color fall down in milk and you can never decide that whether it seems beautiful or simply a disaster. The flashbacks start again and you suddenly see that mistaken identities ar lost again. We suddenly regret for the moments when we had considered that the lights never bring dark. Later, we start doing regrets for almost everything. At the mean time, the second spell will start and we’ll start compressing everything happened earlier. Time goes, and our abilities improve, and this lets the moments to be compressed more and more. Time will win the game again and we can’t do anything but watch it carelessly.
I had ever wanted to walk under the snowfall, or in the rain beside the maple trees, covered by the mist under dim light, alone. The rains, snowfalls, and mists will start acquiring their fates every year from now and I’ll start dreaming again and forever. I may not dream for the things but I may be dreaming for “the dreams that should come true”. We’ll play the melodious tune back and watch the snow melting every seconds, outside our dens again. Perhaps, they’ll abuse you in the flashback and you just can cry for everything. The identities will be dissolved in the tears and you’ll watch the snowfall, again, undecided, carelessly. You’ll walk in the rain beside the trees but listen no footsteps behind you, the footsteps that have promised to guide you all along, however, they even won’t follow you. The rain wiil be continued and you’ll keep walking, like a helter-skelter, holding your hands yourself. And the trees will sing that “returning home is not always precious”, mocking on you. You may laugh or throw smiles on them, or let your tears dissolve in the rain, again.