The real one.

Ayush Ashish

A peaceful warm day. The dry air grazing the land. A distant plain. A wooden hut. A bunch of trees in the back. The wheat crops, swaying with the winds, spawning through the distance upto the far hillside. The man inside the hut gets off his chair and places his feet on the redwood floor. His unbuttoned white shirt flutters in the wind. His dark glasses hide the glare of the Sun from his eyes. He moves towards the doorless doorway. He looks at the midday Sun, listens to the whispering wind. Memories of his journey return to him. He remains standing motionless as his Breguet shows hours elapsed. He tries to count unsuccessfully what all he has lost out in reaching upto the very place he stands. Rolling tears on his stern face glisten in the oblique rays of the then setting Sun. A golden light, or maybe a golden shadow is cast upon him. He realises that quite often, you lose everything important to gain little of unimportant things. Yes, maybe what you earn is important, but not to you. It is to the world. You remain, but a mere competitor in the baffled universe of unsatisfied people. Who remain unsatisfied of you.

The Breguet slips from his wrist. The maplewood hut burns. And the blaze of this fire in the eyes of the man sets his soul on fire, free and happy. He again can listen to the winds, no more whispering now, but applauding to his rise to the world.
The real one.

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