The grief ridden eyes find solace in nothing except a deep lingering sleep. They will say–it is common heartache…but nay. It is naught but that. It is grief. Not an inbred shift of innards. It is like a setting sun.
The worst thing about storms is, that before they strike hard, there is calm and peace. The worst thing about calm and peace is–that it never lasts and is immediately followed by storms.
Thus sets the sun. Deep into the horizon–to emerge again. But in all its glory–things repeat and stay the same.
And so–the little prince could not find the words and the nerves to reply. What would it say? They were forty four sunsets. One after the other.
It was not heartache. It was just an empty void.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
All i gathered about life. Each and everything. It must and can be summed in these four words. Not mine. NO. But they were written down by T.S Eliot.
‘Life is very long’
And thus…we go on living. We don’t know why we are doing so. But simply because if we don’t–life will stop. We don’t know what to do. So we keep walking.
SO we keep watching sunsets. And brace the long long life.