The sun shines, as grey with humiliating defunct love towards mankind. Rain drops a few. Clouds ever bothering the busy Dhaka Schedule. Cold breeze that wave in the midst of noise. Birds chirps in the day that is yet to break the dawn. Crows caw, one a lead with humping others on its sequel. The cars toot, and drivers at their may day sour. A plain recipe of a life that is lost in pans of labyrinth.
Back in room is a avalanche of books to read. The bump that construe a quiet equanimity of medical and non medics. A Sutra covered in dangling orange scarf, the advises and commentaries of long gone masters in Buddhist echelons. Glancing at ceiling is a large barn of fan, useless in cold winter, left hanging. On the wall an old calendar, 2014 is gone. But everything is deafening. The books in bulk, a closet, and five bars of soap, study table and badminton rackets all lie in silent hill. Only astute insignia of momentary silence is the tick of Quartz clock.
The nature manifests, in the line of tempest a variable change. Every second, ever crossing, not realizing I am one second old. Life is but a myriad of changes contoured in a line one aspires. Everything subjected to change. The factual realization of stance, position and karma where only a constant variable is the tick of a clock. As I look back, the plain, humdrum and normal life of what were mostly a life led on others. Do I ever change on what I am or what I have ever been?