He was a shy child and books were all that he loved. there were lands he knew well and people he felt close to; he could relate to them. Everything was easy, everything so clear.
He was a shy child and he had to go to school. the teachers were boring and the games meaningless. Nothing was easy, everything so blurred.
He was a child no more..yet he loved his books..he knew their customs and their stories so well...he was the narrator..he was the joy of their lives.
A child no more..he had to venture out..lost in the blanket of people..he knew not their language and their rites and joys.
He travelled far and wide...into the depths of his stories..crossed centuries...was no stranger left..who did not know his name.
He was stranded..on his own..a small dot..and no one knew his name.
Aged by now..the books were his bones...had all he wanted and knew all his lives well
Aged..nothing left of him..knew nothing of his life..and no fulfillment of demands.
That was how he lived..Content to be known..yet unknown
No comments:
Post a Comment