What is it about crowds that tears your soul
and makes you feel so bare, alone?
are they not of same kind?
do they not walk the same space,
breathe the same air,
see the same view?
yet in throngs you morph
you shrink, you fade—
and your soul can only grasp, never reaching
never ever quite reaching solace
Instead there’s stormy solitude
Just like that twenty-one days of writing have flown by. But I’ll be the first to admit that I have not written properly every single day. Yes, I’ve missed two days due to busyness or forgetfulness or don’t know what-ness but I’ve missed, and it kinda hurts. What does ease the pain, however, is knowing that I didn’t even start on the first day of the year anyway, so I haven’t really ruined anything save my idealistic dreams. Those can stand a little bruising anyway.