Believe me, Adia

There is truth to writing. It hides in the powers of metaphors but it is naked, nonetheless. It awakens the dragon—sleeping in the dungeons of the past, sometimes, the princess that you were—kissed, and cajoled, in the towers of a, now, deserted castle.

I wanted to write that I want to hibernate but, hide, where? It is tempting to get lost in the word hibernate.


Volcanic emotions erupt and try to mock my libertarian sensibilities. They tell me that I am in the same mudflow where I was, some sort of, aeons ago. They sell the drama, and I try hard to be apathetic as if the heart is no impulsive buyer.

But there is truth to the music playing in the background and I am lured to buy it. Sarah Mclachlan claims innocence though I would not know if she was acquitted but I hope…I hope she made it—whatever that means.    



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