Faded

 

The haunt, which hangs in the air like unspent static, is the fear of time, and purpose wasted. Everyday which goes by, without a routine, can scratch against my ‘ground’ like a hard sweeping brush. It’s etching away at the trial which i’d marked myself, in the vain hope I could ever, if needed, turn to the tattooed ground to remind myself of the way I am headed and the way I have come.

The path upon which I thought I had gained some footing is fading, and i’m not far behind.

It is during these moments, when, locked inside a tightly binding labyrinth of excessive reflection, that I long for the traveller’s Compass, to remind me of which direction to take, in order to step forwards and march on.

Sometimes, the colours on life’s map become faded.

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This story, of course, I leave to be continued…


 

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