I feel as if I am a failed writer, which i, so obviously am construed by many of friends and foes. I feel failure in articulating my vivid imagination, putting it in right words in a tight and meaningful way. I feel lack. I don't understand it, I only try to. Modesty lacks right words, it's a short pause against long pauses of imagination, it's awkward and ridiculous of all. Modesty stems out of lies which we so firmly swore to abide to. It is moral, and imagination is overuse. I kept thinking, I took long pauses, for minutes and then for few hours. I spoke and spoke nothing of what mattered to me, I was being modest. I should have run. I should not have spoken. I should not have heard. I was misconstrued once again for a patient listener, which I am not, I am too moody to share, I was being modest.
I took a long walk home, I was so distinctively able to see me and her as separate entities. I could see, I am no gender, caste or religion, I am unperishable. I am unharmed, I am unborn. She was something else, and I was other things that mattered.
