You ever get that feeling, when you've put in everything you've got into something and at the end you feel like standing alone on an edge? 

Fueling the pump which moves the black thing in my veins, the never fading echo falls on my ears and the world is silent again. The hum of the winds, buzzing of bees and the smell of trees - lost in the deep abyss. When the rusty wheels derail off a slippery track, it's most probably the end of line. Washed up on the shore, crashing waves reminds me of a distant collision. The building of a crescendo, a singular point of convergence. All roads lead to the empty bookstore.

Sitting alone on the edge, with one foot resting in air, looking at the stars and wondering if someone's listening to the fading beat of the heart. You can only go on for so long, the wind says. Head bowed to circumstance, this spot of secularism your lone vigil. They tell of good places, the gardens, the waterfalls, the rivers shimmering in moonlight, the view from top of the Khalifa, lying in the shadow of Giza, would have been nice to visit someplace I guess. The grimace hides behind it a lifetime worth of troubles from the obvious eyes. The eerie silence makes it feel like a second home, one can always get lost in drifting noise and people, it feels almost nearly good here. Almost glad, I suppose.

You keep pushing forward and forward, until it's the end of the road. And all roads lead to the empty bookstore. I almost want to be there now. I'd pick silence over noise of life any day.

You can only go on for so long... and all roads lead to the empty bookstore.

©2014 Aman Gupta

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