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….Since you left,
I felt everything is seeping into my enclosed room.
A grassy damp smell clings to me always.
A cold numbness spreads up my skin across
my aching shoulders, but I dare not to respond.
I put my books on the table, and there they had
their eyes close. My skin feels aged like the old,
gnarled bark of the tree, with the bracelets of
dried memories. The hands on the clock seem
to stand still, motionless propped against the
bare wall.All the pain percolating somewhere
in the house.Some unseen hand throttles my
nights and dragging them into languorous days.
I sometimes call out, a meek cry of the solitary
bird, flying out of the roomy silence of the canopy.
The fabric of your memories drapes my figure,
a cloth of shrouded despair, as my trembling
hands move out to trace you…..

’Cause it’s a human habit to hide Pain. when you express it, it cleanses you!’ as said by my close friend ….Suddenly, each small piece of context makes the assessment more complex, when we are experiencing the pain.We feel pain everywhere, indeed we see this everywhere before our eyes, in small things as in great. It could be the book on the table, or the clock on the wall, the white sheet on the bed etc etc…everything appears to be a victim, a sense of heaviness and lifelessness like someone who is in pain.’am humbled by all these fallen creatures of the world who’ve taught me that even harder than the act of making is the act of re-making..’As Yeats said, “those that build … again are gay”

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