Some people are not meant to be a juggler, while there are some who live their lives as a master of all skills. Some not defining the worth of anything, and others carrying the abundance of everything within them.
The strong, roaring waves of a beach strike the rocks with a bang, but the silence still prevails over all of it, somehow.
The bustling, active noise of the bazaar and hawkers all around it, people crowding at the fruit stalls lining down the road, wheels clashing in the ditches, scorched, but standing at the centre of the storm.
Lists of all the things that ever were and that are demanded more. Some are wishes, others are necessities. Some are favourites, others are burdens. Some are considered assets, others become liabilities. A long list of all the chores, detailed and written clearly, but still the ambiguous cloud of vagueness wanders around, and none of this cluster could be started.
The sound of the desert. The flying sand. The blazing sun striking the eyes and the feet, walking and walking over an infinitely long path.
The flying paper gusting in the winds like a time traveler riding from one end of the wave to another.
The splashing foot in the mud, stepping down with all its strength, making the slush leap at the clothes.
The traveling voice in the air, the vibrations of the particles in it, making sounds for each of the rustling leaves, the gushing wind, the striking sun, and the abundance of silence it carries within it.
