If only
If I were Kipling, Frost or Longfellow, perhaps I would have poured my heart out at first. Or I would have said the harsh reality to make a bonding. And perhaps I would have been engrossed in deep sorrow and pain that requires a shoulder to cry or an ear to listen. I might have been intoxicated to tell the truth and fascinated to make it public. And perhaps I would have been dreaming but no longer the dream gets over and I lament of things I ever said or wrote. But above all, I am sober and contended of what I intend to. It’s always easy to spell the beans heatedly but it is rather difficult to remain poised to tell the truth spade a spade. It often begins with remorse and grievances but ends with veiling the truth and shallow believe of having everything fine at the end. It’s not a dream which will be over and after getting up I have to pretend of being someone who disguises being else.
If I could reminiscence the folly of great minds, perhaps I would replicate of what they are great at.
By:-Devsheel Gaurav
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