Waiting,
waiting, and waiting. Just like a scarecrow on the paddy field. It serves its
only purpose, and then it rots. The irreversible death and no one cares about
it.
We shall not wish to be like a scarecrow, but this is life. Sometimes, we just exist, and rot to death. Life passes by, and we are left to run after it, or maybe we are running for something that is really wanted in our lives. A dream, this hope or that wish will never come alive. Foolishness and all other hated emotions, mixed into a bowl, stirred about. A concoction of sorrow, of grief, of pathetic sadness that carves the heart from the inside and alters the mind is made. We may yearn to reach the top, but some mountains are not meant to be conquered. They can only be gazed from afar.
We unabashedly want them. Still, one may wonder – losing them might be the best thing after all.
We shall not wish to be like a scarecrow, but this is life. Sometimes, we just exist, and rot to death. Life passes by, and we are left to run after it, or maybe we are running for something that is really wanted in our lives. A dream, this hope or that wish will never come alive. Foolishness and all other hated emotions, mixed into a bowl, stirred about. A concoction of sorrow, of grief, of pathetic sadness that carves the heart from the inside and alters the mind is made. We may yearn to reach the top, but some mountains are not meant to be conquered. They can only be gazed from afar.
We unabashedly want them. Still, one may wonder – losing them might be the best thing after all.
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