The colours are somehow getting swirled up in the sands. And in the end, I am finding it all dry and dusty. Colourless and dirty. And I look back at myself, and find little solace. For, I am hardly visible nowadays. Not that you could ever see me clean as a crystal. But I could paint the hues I liked, and I loved the freedom to do so. The colours are prescribed. And the beauty muddled up by dust-storms. Dreary. Motion without a sense of moving ahead. Swept back to the same point over and over again. Flung back onto the bedrock. So hard that it takes time to stand up once more. So hard that it hurts.
Some point back in time, a kid who looked just like me used to think that he had the guts to attack, and solve his own problems. Now, he doesn't even try. He peeps into solutions, and stays content. And fails miserably when that solution is absent. If three years at a sad place has this effect on that kid, then I refuse to be him. Staunchly.