Finagle

And that’s how you keep going on; through fever, illness, bad health; tired, battered and bruised but still trying to stand tall looking your best. And half the life passes away in this endeavor. But what’s left of you then? Nothing but pieces of your past lying along the way; and losing sight of them as you amble along. Scattered hopes and unfinished battles in this stroll through the graveyard until you finally knock at the doors to be let in. And when you walk through that door you realize that it’s right where you began as a child with an empty page.

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A lone biker tears off as if in the greatest hurry in the world. The trucks pass by the joint in great lines leaving all the heat and longing behind. Where are they all heading? Truly they must have some destination; some purpose; some aim in life? I stood there without any purpose or hope. The cigarette made the wait and the journey bearable. The winds blew as a harbinger to the impending monsoon which had blessed the towns around. It always makes me sad when I see people hurrying with their luggage for their vacation or their travels. It makes me sad because I’m trapped in a life I don’t like. The life I never chose but came to me as a disease that wouldn’t cure. It makes me long for the day when I’ll be in their shoes packing off my luggage to a place far away. I walked back to my bus with a last sigh as the driver blew the horn indicating that the journey had to be resumed.

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The only thing that doesn’t change between places or between people is the distance that separates them.

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