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  • Writer's pictureJames Kidac

A dream of a philosopher

it was a day in a year, a year in the years of existence and it should be a normal one too, for most days were. in a graveyard, on a slab before a nameless tombstone, a rose laid, ignoring small bouts of gusts in the ground which gathered brown leaves into the autumn's brink. when a person has nothing to lose, he can think more clearly, more objectively, but at the same time, he will feel that emptiness that accompanies this freedom can be damning. the railway tracks behind the small open gate of a fenced dead land laid bare before him, stretching beyond the point where the eye could see. he walked without a thought of reason but that of a wanderer, and never really knew where he was heading, or whether the conclusion would be a change he wanted. it was just a step and another step and a few stops of wander along the way. A desolate man walked with a relunctance to accept his calling for he wanted to hold on to the past, memories of a rose, a girl, lost love and many things that took away, when they got hurled into the gusts of forgettedness, the best of the person he was.

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