The final frontier; the first step

You like it or not, the circuitous turn of events will take you back to the same hour of life. The scene is not quite different; smell of ink seeping through the pages; ticking of the piece rising through the head; targeted thoughts run by the minute and stay focused on the dried, dead thoughts of the orator. It’s like coming back to the same life, with listed thoughts setting guide to the unknown. And the link goes back to the over congested nights; overwhelmed with the striking images of the recent past. How would I cope up with the settled unsettling thoughts?

It took a lot more than courage to ride my way to the 24^th SM Street; nothing but the mind is at stake; a way to behave and way to think. Notice not the ashes, but a diminishing sliver lining, which decided to rest for a while to stay alive with the optimistic thoughts. A few lively souls do traverse the path and brighten the hope to the dangerous degrees, but helping to keep standing and realizing the cushy spots along the bumpy ride. Jerry Macquire said it right “roll with the punches, tomorrow is another day”. If fight is the only way of life, then it’s prudent not to rest the armor, but to make it lethal with every grind.

But, then, there are so many dark spots that color at the horizon has decided to disguise the identity of the virgin soul. And the institution is making sure that disguised images go deep into the gallows of incompetence. The sheer lethargy of vibrant words let the message dwindle before it reaches the vestiges of the past in the wisdom tooth. What we hear and what we see is the thought of inability that tries to shape the future. With the crumbling foundation of an ignoble thought, there stands a man, with a dream to realize, a point to prove and a life to fulfill. Will it all rest on the dilapidating shoulders of the past; may be not; but on the strength to follow the trails of ages and making it glide past the demeaning thoughts of a noble institution.

It may have got a lot peripheral than I thought, but what good is the writing that doesn’t give way to the free will and the flow of unanchored thoughts? But the truth stays encumbered and squeezes through the life blood of the rising institution. What good do we do when we sprint with the zestful, but imaginary, thoughts not knowing that the relay has turned to a hurdle? A favorable, self fulfilling, prophecy would be to listen to the rooted sounds and strengthen the future for, an unbiased, good of all. That’s where the generations clash for the virtue of disguise, than for the eye of the bird. May all rest in peace, which, for sure, I won’t allow.