The night.

She might have been the only woman in the tavern drinking alone that night. She sat on a tall chair looking around . She wasn’t the the most beautiful of all neither did she have a golden heart. Wrinkled skin and auburn hair told tales to an onlooker, shamelessly. Bland and weary of her battles she sat and drank. A long dark night waited for her to cover her up in a shroud of a million thorns. In her mind she thought of his smile which used to let loose some reservoirs inside her, his careless touch that made her thunder rumbling waiting to set free. All that was left of him were broken memories and momentary flashes which were hard to come by, that sort of a memory was a meditation, you couldn’t access it as and when you like rather you arrive at them through certain discipline.

The winters were never this cold and severe. It was as if the Earth ran out of its fire leaving a silvery trail everywhere. At least the old oak indoors were warmer. The night slithered in making her soul heavier. Desperation and despair are cousins who don’t look each other in the eye and all you do is keep oscillating between the two, one after the other. Here she was, tired, her ends were liquefying and flowing into never-ending pipes. But you have to believe that she did her best. There were times when she was optimistic and there were other times when she felt optimism was nothing but a higher and more sophisticated form of desperation. All of us are busy making structures in life, culling them from an frail imagination and weak hearts, giving it all the finery that once we never had. And in the end, an eventuality waiting for it, rusting it. The more complex the structure is, the mightier is the fall. Threads of devastation knit closely into a sheet of redundancy, manifesting over and over again. She knew the horror of sleeping with that thought, with a cold bedside.

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