A license bargain wasn't enough to shackle my fourth anniversary celebration of rioting the land of opportunities. A 13 mile biking of the best kind shed a full moon bow at the river of candle memories. The return journey at 4-5 in the morning was drenched with an electrical storm. Concerned, the monkey with the cymbal of the ever so wandering mind worried about the lightning greeting. Nothing had changed and everything might have changed as per the half yearly report.
An ankle twist later, a viru knock later, a math-crack later, a life of million little happy things later, and a feel of an aeon later, the belief on self was shattered. A single statement, so strongly put forth, so emotionally divulged, so abruptly loose-tongued, I understood that I am deeply entangled in the web of my dark ages. What's in it, if a son is not what he is to his father? The last time a similar feeling occured, I tried to mend the error and it ended up as an air punch that still spills my gut. In spite of a million little happy things that happened before, and will happen later AGAIN, somehow, the feeble heart struggles to the fear of finding a way to compensate for all that was truly, wholely, and entirely attempted for good.
"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand. There is no going back. There are things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep. That have taken hold."
The irony is that of the compulsory next four hour sleep, which will bring in the power of the professional mind to maraude over the personal beliefs of failure.