All Along The Watchtower

Spending time with parents can be fun.
It's hard to register them as people. People who were somewhat like us some 25 odd years back.
People who thought, talked, behaved like us. People who we might have just been friends with.

You never really know them unless you talk. And listen. Really listen.


Don't know why people don't do it often?
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Now feeling: Very very full after a huge bowl of Maggi
Now reading: Papillon by Henri Charrière
Now listening to: 'Be here to love me' by Norah Jones

A bruised hand,
a silent tear.

A broken hope,
a faded dream.

The night sky,
the morning glaze.

Thoughts,
words,
music.


All have given away to haze, haven't they?


A dejected spirit,
a lost sanctity.

A helping hand,
anyone?