The most beautiful and ugly journeys do not ends.They continue much after you think, you're through.
It's just like love. Ceaseless!
It's also like a fly. Buzzing!
So where to begin this story ? Okay let's begin with the shadows I was carrying all through this journey until I was exhausted and had no where to hide.
Shadows of those forlorn untidy unkept letters I had written in love. At least I took it as love. I was so sure of it that I was already designing the new house in my drawing book. I was writing off all my past debts of memories.
Until one evening I know that I was always alone and all through I was talking to those beautiful shadows in my dreams.
And then I had no where to go. The walls were becoming unbearable with its contempt .The bed was agonisingly white and pale. Everyone started behaving strangely as if it was only my fault to imagine that I was in love.
And I ran. Ran away as far as possible until I reached in front of the flowing Alakananda river and the tall, rather very tall Himalayas.
And then ? Blame Kafka for writing "Metamorphosis".
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