A call to the lost Wanderer and the lost spirit.

Life has been hectic as usual. And it is normal that the wanderer doesn’t have time as she used to do before, life, job and the time of adult life kind of sucked her into the dark capsule of time. She doesn’t stand and stare at the clouds like before neither does she waits to listen to the murmuring of the old Brooke. She just runs with time, the age-old race that man has been running for many years, the race of deadlines and quadrified work. She cries alone sometimes and sometimes she smiles at the calming breeze that occasionally gives her the comforting hug. Being far away from home, she was trying to find a home, she was trying to find herself. In this mad rat race, she feels like she lost herself. She isn’t her, anymore. She isn’t anymore the dreamer who used to conjure up the violet smokes of dreams and she doesn’t get teleported to dreamlands anymore. She just gets nightmares that scream to her she missed another deadline of the multiple jobs she is juggling. She craves for those academic cycles, those enriching discussions. She craves for a nice steaming hot cup of one of that midnight chais.. It’s funny how our dreamer manages to carry her heart on her sleeves, she always manages to find a way to break her heart, or maybe it is because she flies too high in expectation sometimes. But doesn’t she has all rights to fly high in exceptations. OH HELL YESS, She has all the right. She is a wild spirit deep inside, a dreamer, a fighter who never bows down to conventions, who can’t be chained down, she is like that she-dragon that breathes out the fire that could melt any chains and converts them into diamonds for her crown. Yes, she is the Queen, not because she belongs to any King but because she owns a country and its people, the country that lies inside her. Her disguise of simplicity fools people sometimes and they confuse her internal peace to be her weakness, but she knows exactly when to unleash the internal Medusa. Oh, wanderer, I miss you, I miss the times when you used to take me to the magical world of words, to the world of imagination, to the castles of old Scotland and to the forbidden garden of Rapuccini. Wherever you are my dearest dreamer, come back to me for we are one, and without you I am incomplete, just a machine puppeteered by the hands of a Capitalistic, unimaginative, innovative society. Come back to me and hold my pen, when I write about those lone travels.

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