While walking on empty roads as the cold breeze gently caressed my face, I traced my past. Like an open graveyard, I walked through it. Like an old favourite book, I smelled its pages again. Like an old friend, I felt a sense of familiarity.
I realised that I had lost too many people. People who left me, and people I left. People who stopped loving me, and people I never stopped loving. People who forgot me, and people I will never forget. In between the silence of outgrowing people and the heartbreak of striking differences, life slapped us all into reality.
I opened the chest of memories that I had locked from ages. Broken promises overflowed. Shattered hopes oozed out. Unfinished stories glanced at me with desperate eyes. Old love threw tantrums. I just kept looking, overwhelmed with the reminder of things I have lost.
Now, here we are trying to find lost pieces of past in the future. Now, here we are trying to see similar features in new faces. Now, here we seek to locate the grace of old love in the passion of a new one. We all are walking boxes of memories. We all are shelves occupied with broken promises and dusty novels.
We all have come too ahead, while never reaching anywhere at all. We all have been beaten, in one way or another, into a silent acceptance.
We all are nothing but a mosaic of people who have left, and those few who decided to walk along. We all are nothing but a bruised love that never learned how to stop loving.
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