Everyone breathes but who is it that actually lives?

The tempests are assembling in harmony, marveled by the processes of nature, and oblivious to the cries of our kind, that nothing of ‘our reality’ makes sense to them, for the wise wore it beautifully when they realized the impending tragedy that loomed.

Every thirst, untold love story, or the unsung verses that lie so impatiently, inside the pages which only saw grief, or the evening winds which poured magically but could never be felt, writes itself in emptiness, quietly trying to fill the lines because we could never.

If life were to be truly measured in the way we’ve lived, many of us would fail right at the beginning, for the things that ought to matter, finds itself juggling in the dense sphere of materialism, unable to utter, or what is this new emotion, which has us longing yet surrounded by an eternal thirst for condemnation.

The innocence, curiously erupting out of each evening, and the two-faced attire worn by the majority is about as equal it could ever get. Every piece of literature will now be traded for a commodity, and every smile will have been splendidly faked, for the forgers of happiness, the army of wealth, and the looters of affection fill the room that is already bleak.

So to breathe now is to stay within the parameters that so ‘elegantly’ binds everything. But what about the flowers that want to be friends with us when no one would. To say that life is precious, and to say that all the songs have already been sung, in a conditioned society, is in comparison, an infliction to our soul, that cries and cries, unable to speak so it simply accepts.

And the wanderers fill the road with imageries, about everything that could have been, and the dreamers sit under the celestial ocean of night skies, waiting for a new star to be discovered while the rationalists try to test a new hypothesis, in search of knowledge, and unaffected by the current body of myths that exist.

And, again, to breathe is simply to exist in a way that no one ever could.

Kindness, when everything is seemingly revolving in this black hole of selfishness, is an act that is immortal, written only for the strong. We always wait for the tides to sing unconditionally to us, but who is that wakes up to a storm, only to appreciate the finery of nature?

The crafted reality is that a poor person always has more to give compared to a rich ‘human’. And why is it that we give only to be appreciated, and love only to be loved back?

There are a billion love stories that ended tragically, and with it, a part of people's souls. But why is it that we have to become desperately selfish, that we somehow ‘need to be loved’. Isn’t beauty in aloneness enough, for the stanzas that live through it, know that it truly is.

Everyone breathes, but who is it that actually lives, yet here we are, asking the same questions over and over again.

-Yogesh Chandra