I believe in every piece of writing where ever you see, you may find certain situations where the author tries to depict certain characters. He needs some figures to deliver his thoughts over and over again.
When it rains in a perfectly beautiful night, he enjoys the little droplets falling high above the sky. He looks up. It’s all black up there, but the tiny little pieces of lively and cheerful raindrops. It makes him feel good. Every drop touching his body heals the wounds he has been carrying for so long.
But inside somewhere he feels lost. He feels the evening rain makes him as lonely as the old lamp post standing beside and guiding everyone when its dark. It is lonely because it sees people passing; there’s nobody to come to it and touch it.
This night is not the same as others. He hears a distant weeping coming from the lamp post. It sounds like a distressed lady. But it is not quite visible from away. He comes near to it. The more he steps closer the more it gets intenser. His curious mind gets wind up to that particular area that is not visible at all.
He comes near where the light falls the most. The rest is dark and cannot be separated from any other existing darker objects in the world.
People say there is no black and white. The colour that sums up our life is grey. We imagine, we love, we expect, we hope. But somewhere its all grey. We see it, we cannot see it; we listen to it, we cannot listen to it; we touch it, and sometimes we cannot.
In one moment what’s there for you, in the blink of an eye, it vanishes. If it were a so simple equation, why life still be a mystery to all?