Saint

A tiny dewdrop that lost its grip over the leaf slipped and splashed on the laps of raw land. In seconds, it was sucked in silently by the surface leaving hardly any trace of its existence. Detachment is as addictive as attachment. A journey that never started has no ends to achieve too. The hermit stood static confused both at the hell and the heaven with a heavy heart. Can there be a story about him for the world? Definitely no… He is none other than a coward living calmly in claustrophobia accepting his incapability to differentiate the barrier between the rights and the wrongs. The truth is that his phobia is towards dreams and decisions. The clouds came down and touched the land only in his dreams. Actually there was neither a cloud nor a decision to determine an opening to his caved mind. A cocoon called ‘character’ he cherished as his confidence crushed bleaching all the beauties that surrounded him as success. It can be defined as the thinking time or meditation. After a few days, intelligence knocked him down setting him mobile. A journey that commences has an end to achieve too, though it carries certain curves and uncertain cuts. Can there be a story about him for the world. Definitely yes… Forecast of future is worthless… Let him live in sainthood with open eyes and open heart. Attachment is as addictive as detachment…