“There’s much of an amusement out there, but the consciousness says it’s nothing but the vice awaiting and people suffering nipping themselves in the bud“.
We do have faintest ideas of our childhood, being the idealistic and most of the time cheerful for even nothing that we had. Things evaporated in the wider air of future life and consequently we are missing ourselves within the real world.
Where the Gods would gift children as blessings from the heaven to the lap of the mothers, those were the bodies adding up to the population leading to poverty and inequality.
Where we would usually stare at the streetlights, and wink and smile before them, those were out of electricity sensing a corruption in Municipalities for their failure on every part.
Where we would cruise across the roads in a seemingly endless roads leading to our birthplaces, those are now the roads which are just the same bearing no development in decades and sighing on the crush of glass and metal and blood on them.
Where in the April evenings, we would blush with the orange of the sunset but would continue with the play till gets to the moon, now seem disappeared. Neither those evenings neither the people who would find no scarcity in sharing happiness.
When in lieu of our comfort zones, we would rather prefer landscapes and the air and the rain. And now the landscapes that veil litter around themselves seal no deal for a visit.
This isn’t the talk of what we percieve, it’s about what’s left to either draw our eyes to. Because there’s so much of reason trauma before anything, it’s hard not to amplify the disgust and inaction. Apart from the wishes that have came true, the prayers that have been answered but to the eyes who sees no dreams, it’s the realism that bear a big share in the blame game.
Now that’s too much that’s happening, but without us in the real world, the cries are unheard, left for dump and ignored till the eternity answers it’s identity. Prolifically, the reply lies within. It’s once explored and lived. An idea that’s superficially and impossible. But so far, it’s the idealistic world I know, a place where nothing is weird and erraneous.
The Writers' Age 