Saturday, 2 December 2017


There was a man, he thought of this world as a beautiful place, a never ending story that unfolds as he unravels the empty scroll of his life that is to be written by him and those whom he passes it to.  

Alas, never was he so wrong in many ways, that the manifold things that took place when he walked the path that he chose to walk as his own and not because he was born and instructed to do so from whence he came from, took its toll on him. 

More than anything else, he wanted to accept that some things are just not meant to be and that these things are the way they are for reasons he’ll never be able to comprehend.

An excuse he tells himself, because he can never find the answer to them no matter how hard he tries.

Every moment perishes as he cherishes it in a second, and some he’ll remember and forget as time flies and slips through his hands. 

Sadness over weighs the joy at times, and sometimes he finds it hard to fork out a smile even in the joyous of times. 

He’s not sure if he’s losing himself, abandoning whatever it is he had believed in. 

He comes before others, bare and useless, as they draw out a part of him that doesn’t wish to surface. 

Sometimes he emphasizes of his worth to himself as it is what matters the most, because if he doesn’t, nobody will do so.

A deep section within him cries for a sense of longing and wanting, and another for solitude and peace. 

He doesn’t know what he needs to believe in anymore. 

If “belief” was a physical being, it would probably have a hard time convincing him to believe in it again.

A man so easily shattered by the stones of reality, but is able to pick up the pieces, however, he is not able to fix it.

A lost man, a broken man, of belief and hope, is him indeed.

However, all is not lost.

He still seeks for a ray of light that would guide him, a man hungry to regain his will to trust in others again, those who had done him wrong, and those who had deceived and rejected him.

A desperate attempt it was and still is, but one that might not be futile.

In order to find such, he must first find his former self, the na├»ve, yet faithful thought, which has been lost within him. 

For without him being that of who he was, he is lost, forever.

If he can’t find himself, nobody can.  

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