Is it okay for me to wonder how many people must be taking in their last inhales of breaths at this very second, feeling their heart rates decelerating with each exhales they're making?
Or what about the new borns who are introduced to their own lungs for the first time in nine months, crying about the fact that the world is so much more than just a secured ball of womb?
I wonder where it must be raining. I wonder where must be the sunshine.
I wonder where is black and where is white, and I also wonder about broken hearts and mending souls.
First kisses and last good byes.
First steps and last suicidal jumps.
Smiles and tears.
Birthday presents and fragile shelters.
Rigid and soft.
Fire and ice.
I wonder.
I wonder about paintings and colors, and faded grey skies.
I wonder about it all while hanging in between the good and bad.
I wonder about it all,
while hanging somewhere in the midst of life.
And death.
YOU ARE READING
The Untold Stories.
Historia Corta// The Untold Stories. \\ " We're about the books we read, and the poems we love." - Kritika Banerjee. A collection of paragraphs, nanotales, poetry and thoughts from my journey. Highest Rank - #78 in short stories on 29/6/17 ...
