While I was trying to write

The bead-black pitch road has faded into a graphite color, worn out like a flaccid old carpet amidst bright green, as it curled itself along the river before ending in a wooden bridge atop it. A place once buzzing with people now only attracts the loneliest of souls. You either are lost, too desperate, or old, to walk through these ramparts of civilization that once was.

On the other side of the road lies an old graveyard. A forgotten realm for forgotten souls, the cemetery reeks of defenestration with its barely readable tombstones and moss-entwined, blackened marble replicas. Near the entrance, a headless fairy welcomes you into this once-refuge for the souls – still somnambulating in the time when it had a purpose.

I was trying to write something sitting by the pier which connected to the crumbling jetty, and the gloomy atmosphere around me wasn’t really helping. A raven sat a few paces from me, and kept unnaturally silent except for a few muted caw’s. With a few papers torn and thrown away, I decided to pen down whatever was in front of me.

Then when I was returning home in my bicycle, I saw an old man stooped near a grave in that graveyard. He was holding a bunch of bougainvilleas in his hand. I saw his lips tremble, but couldn’t fathom what lurked beneath the wrinkled faces. Whether he was crying or murmuring something was beyond my senses.

I wanted to include him too in my note. His ache reminded me of my own. As the day slowly died and left a crimson patch in the sky, I remembered the purple flowers, the pellucid sky, the forlorn graveyard, the rugged street, the uncanny bird and the dreary sense of things long lost.

And a living soul amongst the dead, still hoping to find things it had lost along the way. 

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