Some nights I stay up with a passion ... as if the few hours would make for an endless night, in which I'd sort out every worry that plagues my heart, every fear that claims my mind. Man is naïve like that.
Our wishes are not horses.
Our trades are barters, and yet we understand it not.
Another endless night is drawing to a closure. I don't have any solution yet again. This is an ongoing thing.
My heart aches like the wings of an injured bird that has miles of journey left in a direction it has no clue of.
Wait! I tell it. I tell it every night. Night after night.
While I run through my day pretending my heart is not like the aching wings of an injured bird. Pretending that I can carry the mountains Hercules would've shied away from. I don't know if all those quoting this line understand what it means: 'I walk around like everything is fine, but deep down inside my shoe, my sock is sliding off.'
I wonder because whenever I hear it, I feel the need to fix my socks. I know how the sliding sock feels.
So I stay up at night. To sort out every worry. To tell the injured bird with aching wings to have faith. To find solutions. To wait.
But wishes are not horses.
Image: Stone age painting of men riding horses found in the Bhimbetka rock shelters in India.
Photo credit: Wikimedia
Photo credit: Wikimedia
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