The many faces of men

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
William Shakespeare

The manifold façades that people display.

A unique mask for every occasion.

A subtle change of persona to suit the mood of the mob.

If so, there is no one who is true to himself.

Or to anyone else, for the matter.

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Another tear too late

Poignant grief cannot endure forever. Yet it seems to stretch on for an eternity.

Why shed another tear for a cause I have long stopped believing in? Why fight a battle of which the odds are stacking higher against me day by day? I don't know. I just do.

And its not a cry you can hear at night, its not somebody who's seen the light, its a cold and its a broken Hallelujah.

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A new page

It's been months, if not years and yet things still remain relatively unchanged. The vitriol of the yesteryears is threatening to boil over after remaining dormant for so long. Wounds heal with the passage of time, but it is not so with scars; they last a lifetime. Though what is a little bile now compared to the large doses I had to swallow back then with an emotionless mask of a face? Certain things do change, but others linger on obstinately. Naivety, I suppose, has long been lost to the storms of life. I may have left the past in the flesh, but my soul firmly refuses to budge.

Can I bring the chapter of yesterday to closure and turn the page?

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Change

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A new milestone

A new milestone achieved marks the beginning of another phase in the seemingly eternal journey. The next station of life may usher in changes, or rather the illusion of change; but as the cloud of novelty dissipates, reality sinks in- The next stop does not necessarily harbour better days. In fact, the converse may be true. Nevertheless, happiness does not all stem from one's environment. Rather, it is how one perceives the world enclosed around him. One can have the world on his palm and yet possess nothing. When analysed on its tangents, the statement may seem paradoxical but it yields a simple yet fundamental truth when pressed harder- joy cannot be obtained through material means.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all.

Emily Dickinson

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