The world says there is a beauty in grief. The beauty that is inevitable, the grief that does not settle. The heartache that passes unto each and every nerve and vein of yours and decides to stay for unsaid period. The gush of wind wrapped up in the memories that flicker around your neck and reaches your bosom and your sullen heart infinitely beats. Endless riveting thoughts flash in your mind all over cerulean nights. Windowsill stares at you in quiet silence and the peach wall is the listener. The pain does not subside. It flows. The osmosis occurs. The lush lawn you take a stroll is a protector now. The dense branches of old Neem has seen you melt, die and revive. You always depend on the earthly soil, you fall but you fix as similar to the roots within the ground.
This world says there is a beauty in grief. The beauty that is inevitable, the grief that does not settle. The soul is a catcher, it does not sleep, it keeps awake and alive and it feels. The grief stays like one’s shadow. Lovers mourn, victims suffer and hopeless wither. But the ones who stop feeling, the ones surrounded by the ghosts of their sorrows and the ones swallowed by melancholy. Who are they? The one who screams in pain or the one who wanders in silence.