The Misery

Not often, I find the eyes patient enough to look intently at the layers of narratives. Just one glance! Is that how your feeble perception treat the lengthy and labyrinthine voices of feelings? Maybe, the years of being too confident and in a place of comfort with all the platitudes have settled down like thick layers of dust.  The duster is crumpled over the years and lost its sheen because of the struggle with rough hands. The needles of curiosity have been blunt with excessive abrasions with rough pages of mediocre chronicles. Verses, they have become less malleable and haven’t been spared the confines of straightjacket sentiments. How unenthusiastic can a narrative be which cannot be played with at ease and made to shape with unbridled imaginations? You may not be able to compose the response to this with much conviction, but the cliches won’t save the bland streak from uproarious reactions from men of words with genuine emotions. Declining comes easy when the profound words ask you too many uncomfortable questions or challenge the limitations. The mask of fake sincerity is a weak disguise and cannot fool the probing eyes. At the end, the words will haunt the insincere and unethical eliminations of those sentiments that should have been given their due respect. While turning the pages nowadays, I find the insipid sounds complement the works that will be forgotten too soon. This is how the narratives or verses are becoming noxious, there isn’t much scope for genuine discussion.


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