It was born in an unfaithful hour, from a seemingly scandalous decision, due to an unchained desire, and incapacitated prefrontal cortex. Or was it born in the hour of ephemeral freedom, from yet a seemingly scandalous decision, prolonged suppression of some desire, and a raging heart on fire?
It remains unspoken, untold, unheard, only till it dies. It is secretly passed to the bosom of the trustworthy and uncaringly spent on those who do not seem to care. The anonymous existence of someone's not spoken words becomes an existential dilemma of someone else's anonymity. To be or not to be, is that the question? And still, it lives, waxes and wanes like the moon with its bane.
As time passes by, as the winds turn and the globe warms up towards its ends, this little secret might finds its way in the big bad world. It was kept in the shadows for too long. Now it wants to come out. Now it wants to be spoken, told and heard. It wants to burst out like the rain, probably shower on some like pain. It wants to occupy its rightful space, even if someone is left with no grace. It wants to sparkle like a star, startle like a flash of lightning and roar like a lion. But is it too late?
The secret you see has a very short life. It dies in years even if it lives on for centuries. Because the world doesn't care for some unsolicited act of defiance or rebel which now holds greater insignificance than a lions roar in the jungle heard from the chaos of the city. In the jungle, it might be impactful, but aren't even jungles being civilized? It withers away, slowly, steadily and may or may not rest in peace. But now does anybody care?
But until it is reduced to nothingness and sucked out of its life's strength, it has to remain unspoken, untold and unheard. So humans can fathom the consequences of an unfaithful hour, a seemingly scandalous decision, some unchained some long-suppressed desires, an incapacitated prefrontal cortex, and a raging heart on fire.
It remains unspoken, untold, unheard, only till it dies. It is secretly passed to the bosom of the trustworthy and uncaringly spent on those who do not seem to care. The anonymous existence of someone's not spoken words becomes an existential dilemma of someone else's anonymity. To be or not to be, is that the question? And still, it lives, waxes and wanes like the moon with its bane.
As time passes by, as the winds turn and the globe warms up towards its ends, this little secret might finds its way in the big bad world. It was kept in the shadows for too long. Now it wants to come out. Now it wants to be spoken, told and heard. It wants to burst out like the rain, probably shower on some like pain. It wants to occupy its rightful space, even if someone is left with no grace. It wants to sparkle like a star, startle like a flash of lightning and roar like a lion. But is it too late?
The secret you see has a very short life. It dies in years even if it lives on for centuries. Because the world doesn't care for some unsolicited act of defiance or rebel which now holds greater insignificance than a lions roar in the jungle heard from the chaos of the city. In the jungle, it might be impactful, but aren't even jungles being civilized? It withers away, slowly, steadily and may or may not rest in peace. But now does anybody care?
But until it is reduced to nothingness and sucked out of its life's strength, it has to remain unspoken, untold and unheard. So humans can fathom the consequences of an unfaithful hour, a seemingly scandalous decision, some unchained some long-suppressed desires, an incapacitated prefrontal cortex, and a raging heart on fire.
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