A drifter decides to possess the most beautiful thing in the world.
Love.
And then, he decides to lose it.
Reject it, not because it wasn't beautiful enough.
Or not because it wasn't what his heart had always searched for.
It is, sadly and paradoxically, all he ever wanted.
It is so beautiful that he cannot accommodate it.
It chokes him.
He is so sinfully alive to the pangs of his lost past,
that he's brutally dead to sense the life running through his veins today.
Why does he not try and repair his rift with his past?
Why can't he let go?
Why can't he move on?
Try and give himself a fair trial, an honest chance?
Why does he treat any beauty in his life as a curse?
Why does he push it away?
Why can't he embrace love with all his heart?
Why does he surge away from his honest sentiments?
Why does 'life' happen to him like a Sunday?
Almost like an apology.
A ridicule reminding him,
that THAT painful Monday will come back again.
He is stock-still to the world outside.
Living in a mystical bubble.
Living a self-deluded existence.
Seemingly unable to snap out of illusion.
Water-tight fossilized compartments.
So action goes on.
But the actor is motionless.
Frozen.
In love.
In time.
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