While I walked through the park on a particular afternoon, I saw a young man sitting on a bench, staring into thin air. I knew this man; he was a well-known bank worker who loved small talks. He loved his job, not because of the pay, but because he met different types of people every day and got to know who they were from a small conversation. I slowly approached the lonely man sitting quietly and asked, "How does a young man know so many people yet have no friends?" The man, caught off guard, cautiously looked up to me, and there it was — as I looked deeply into his eyes, I saw it — the young man's eyes showed pain and distress. However, he found comfort in such emotions. The young man sought happiness but was given solace. He had no choice but to live a life of pure solidarity. He knew there was no winning, there was no hope, and so he accepted defeat, and he stayed quiet and lonely for the remainder of his life.
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escapism
Poetryalways the poet, never the poem. always the painter, never the muse. always the lover, never loved.
