Borrowed Time.

Crumbled pages lie silently at the corner of the room as the ink went dry, the thoughts astray. The mind was a fighting a war within itself. The heart, well it did it’s job, without a care in the world. The walls absorbed the silent screams. The prayers resonated in the enclosure, breathing the aroma of its depth and finally settling at a nice corner of the room. While the night danced in the glory of the dark, the silence prevailed in the epiphany of the mind and all around. ” Tick. Tock. Tick. “

The echoes of pain glorified the dark corners of the ignited mind. What was wrong? What was happening? Questions piled up, like the torn off pages flickering in the silent monotony of the cold breeze which had the half laden thoughts of the days not yet come.

Words. An anagram playing in the multitude of emotions, thoughts and whatnot. A random apprehension of a sophisticated mind. Why are they so far away? Why can’t they come closer? What do they mean? Why don’t they make sense? Is this the right script? Does this reach your heart?
He stared at the mirror long. He tried to look into himself, through the very fragments that kept him together, intact, as broken as he might be inside. He wanted to see what was inside of him, how broken can a person be. He wanted to see what he was made of, whether the broken memories ever heal. He was searching for something within himself, something he felt missing. He was not sure what. He was not sure why. There were questions that haunted, haunted as the answers were just more questions.

Letter. They were letters that hold the story never to be seen, never to be adapted, never to be lived. A letter, which was a warning, an indication of what went wrong. A foreword to the people to tread carefully. He had carefully handcrafted it, wrote the best god damn letter he ever could. He spoke of the misery, he spoke of the lost self, he spoke of great many deals. He ended the letter with a farewell. It was his last letter signed off with a “I am sorry, Good Bye”.

Here he was again, 10 years later contemplating over the same letter, still broken, still finding his way, still trying to perfect his last letter. The time was a factor that stopped for him a decade ago. He was a lifelessly alive, stuck on the past notion, not moving an inch forward. He tried to end it, end it all, the agony, the pain, the disappointment, and in the end even his life. Time, for him was a reminiscent.

He was living on borrowed time.
The time which is not his.

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