It wasn’t so good. I woke up from a half broken sleep. I was still away from my destination, still trying to cope up with the fact that I am on the narrow edge of my life.
Life – Is it too complicated as it seems to be or just like a portrait of which I am the artist. The colours and lines that just blend with the pictures that rise around me in each day of my life. Sometimes, it has been good, sometimes quite a wreck, but had it been disappointing. Why? Because I am the artist of my life.

There was a time –  I couldn’t use my legs to take me to where I wanted to. I could not use my hands to grab the things. I stared at my mother, my eyes gleaming at her, to teach me. I screemed with my untrained tongue, as loud as I could, to teach me to epress my thoughts. To teach me to walk out and look at the open window, out of which I have imagined quite a lot of shadows and colours. I wanted to grab my father’s hand, when he was busy counting. I didnt know what he was doing at that time, since my fresh brain didn’t have any acquaintance with Currency bills. I used to sit with my hands crossed and my face in between , gasping at him, counting, recounting , sitting there for long, concentrating.
The past seems to be a shadow. A fainter shadow, that still, call out to me to etch it down.
Told stories of my past are often fascinating for me. When Mother says, you did this, did that, I often go back in my shadows of memories, trying to gasp those stories.
I don’t remember when I started to walk this earth. No one told me yet. But I have a lot of told stories, of what I did, when I started to use my legs.


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