And you realize no matter how guarded you weave the words, how you keep the tone in a sing-song and how you try to contain the universe in a phrase; you just realize that you can be displaced in your own beautiful tragedy. Your characters dig their own graves, carve their own tombstones and compose their own epitaphs.
The nuance can go unnoticed into the sinkhole. But you tried. So you put the inverted smiley as a giveaway but took it thereafter. In the derelict alleys of memory, you have, heartbeat after heartbeat, tried to remember a song tattooed at the back of your hands but seems strangely foreign now.
In spite of the disappointment, you still maintain the quietude and stillness. Because in the country beyond your self, they think they are God’s gift to mankind.
There’s no need of words and gestures now. So you let the muffled silence holler its name to the valleys of forgetting.