Blue trees blow in the wind,
We don't ask them why.
Paths may lead to nothing,
but old golden fields of rye.
Solitude of a painted cloud,
like seers sing for a sky.
Raindrops fall into vision,
watching a dead star die.
The conditions of a solitary bird are five: The first, that it flies to the highest point; the second, that it does not suffer for company, not even of its own kind; the third, that it aims its beak to the skies; the fourth, that it does not have a definite color; the fifth, that it sings very softly.
This blog has lived four years changing faces, changing voices, and chasing dreams. The writer, Samyuktha PC, is trying to live by finding stories, creating performances on stage, keeping secrets, running away on crazy adventures, and painting strawberries. She is currently has a pair of night-vision goggles fixed on to her face. She is combing the night for a punching bag and a pair of stark red gloves.
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