This deluge of tears refuses to stop or dry in time. And life today is an inconsistent film of oil stagnant on its surface, the painful patches- a tattered map of a coherent past. I squint at the sun through this curtain of tears. Colors shine and shimmer, but no memories arise of previous rainbows. The refracted world holds but watery promises.
No one knows my tears better than this corner of my house. These walls meet only to gently hold me as I sink to newer nadirs. This far corner, my invisible cradle for impossible sorrows. Literary excess and musical heavens are unreal worlds offering a temporary mirth. Beloved words and strains of melody- rivulets of joy that weave around me a faithful armor for such days of war.
