Some places are not meant to be visited more than once. Like that corner in your heart that is only inhabited by the ghost of desires long dead. Or that tiny lane which you avoid because you don’t trust yourself anymore. Or the dust-laden path that ends at sorrowful sighs and a silence just kept.
Silence comes in all shapes and sizes. Companionable, distrustful, regretful. The worst kind – as my feeble heart has decided – is the one that chooses to not complain or fight or kill someone with a baseball bat. Those are bad. Real bad.
There’s some fog behind and there’s some fog ahead. It’s a very narrow path and it’s leading somewhere. Somewhere. Tucked away between the beginning and the end, it gets dusky as ignorant human figures sway with the gush of time. Time, time, time.
“I know what you are fighting. I am, too.”