Battling

Author: Nikita Suryawanshi

 

We all have heard people around us saying that life is full of struggles or what is life without a few ups and downs in it. Having been told this multiple times throughout our lifetimes, this beautiful quote has become something whose meaning is lost on us now. Yes, we have accepted the fact that one definitely does have to overcome numerous hurdles to achieve their goals. All of us are struggling to survive each day and to get through the difficult times of our lives.

But our own hardships have taken such precedence over others’ that we tend to think that no can have it as bad as me. And so in this situation, we are prone to disregard the hardships of other people. We, knowingly or unknowingly, may be impertinent to others and hurt their sentiments. Not everyone may be sharing or open about their problems. They may put on a smiling mask and pretend that everything is fine. This, however, does not give anyone the right to be inconsiderate towards their battles. Because, visible or not, someone has it worse.

Sometimes it may also go the other way round. Maybe someone you have known well and for a long time might suddenly be acting distant. May be they will yell at you or stop talking to you altogether. The point is, you never know what people are dealing with inside, nor what they’ve had to face in life. People don’t act out towards others in strange, inappropriate, or hurtful ways because they’re doing well in life. They act out towards others because they’re hurting inside, because their pain is getting the better of them, or because they’re on the losing end of their own inner battle.

One of my all time favourite books has been “A Thousand Splendid Suns” by Khaled Hosseini. The story revolves around the lives of a young girl named Laila and her neighbour, Mariam. Laila has grown up seeing Mariam in the neighbourhood everyday and has formed a judgement of her own, as has Mariam for Laila. However, circumstances lead to their lives being intertwined. This when they both realise that the pictures that they have painted of each other in their minds were very wrong. Laila sees the reasons behind Mariam’s distant behaviour and the latter realises that Laila’s life is not as perfect as she may have thought.

What the book taught me was that you never have any idea what someone is facing. Some person you see every day, talk to everyday, even a stranger you walk past on the road may be fighting battles that you never could have imagined. Everyone is confronting their own monsters and this made me realise how inconsiderate I might have been towards others’ struggles. As quoted by Shaikh Ruhi, “Everyone is fighting their own battle and maybe their fight is bigger and worse than yours.”

BEHIND THE CURTAINS

Author: Nikita Suryawanshi

 

Whenever we go to see a movie or a play, we generally do not hang around until the credits roll. At the end we are critics to the actors, the artists, the directors, sometimes maybe the story writer or the choreographer. Whatever praise or criticism we shower, it is on them. But how very often do we forget the work of those thousands of people who put this masterpiece together. These are the people who let the main stars take the praise and revel in their success, but when it comes to a bad review, they take it on themselves to make the amends. And just like this off screen crew in any movie, we fail to realise the importance of the backstage artists in our lives.

They say that every person is a portrait of the efforts of someone who believed in him, someone who pushed him on. There are a lot of people one encounters in their journey. Some stay with us, some don’t, some we have to let go. But at the end of the day, it is the people who truly believe in you that count. And many a times, we don’t give them enough credit. These people let you own all your success despite the fact they always picked you up. They will always prefer to stay away from the limelight, trying to give you theirs too, if possible. You may ask who people. Well, starting from the basics, our family, our best friends, our partners, that one friend we text or call at 3 a.m. when we feel low, a secretary; anyone who is willing to invest in us.

For some bizarre reason, human psychology makes us feel more appreciative about the people who are always there in the happy days and disappear when life hits a low. They somehow manage to pop up and claim that they never lost faith in us and then go about whispering behind our backs. It is not until that their masks slide off that we start feeling eternally thankful for our off camera crew who are ever ready with a net to catch us when we fall. Maybe that is where it goes wrong. Maybe we are not grateful enough for them; maybe we don’t appreciate them as much as we should. At the heart of it, our experiences in particular call us to see people with the deepest appreciation for the gifts they’ve given us.

The problem starts when we don’t even notice how we slipped into the habit of taking each other for granted and stopped caring for, and appreciating each other. I feel, as human beings, we constantly crave for positive attention. And appreciating someone is the best way to go about doing it. Feeling genuinely appreciated lifts people up. At the most basic level, it makes us feel safe. so maybe we might feel a bit awkward openly praising someone, but these are the least of the efforts we can make to hold on to the people that genuinely have faith in us. As William Arthur Ward says, feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.

GRAFFITI

Author: Afreed Ahmed

Escaping from my rush-hour routine
I mark upon the concrete walls
Making what’s unseen seen
Aware that it’s just riding for a fall

Memories, of which I’m the designer
Rhymes and reasons, a work in progress
I feel the adrenaline rushing wilder
When my spray can runs reckless

The sirens in the distance excite us vandals
The rattling of the can, the blues and purples
Littered words and spray painted tantrums
Parade in jagged lines and circles

I lean against the colourful wall and grin
I don’t want to give up on this feeling
Little parts of my story on my skin
The blues and red of the police closing

There’s a storm I’ve started and let loose
I’m a wanderess, I pull on my hoodie and flee
For what I’ve done, there’s no excuse
I figure out my next graffiti.

Out For A Walk

The breeze is cold, with no identifiable smells, it’s pleasuring. The city looks beautiful, calm and the major intersections are the only places with lights. These huge flood-lights look like mere toothpicks from where I stand. The city looks like a collection of a kid’s building blocks, organized as on a circuit board of some complex electronic device. I have seen this view multiple times, probably in every lighting condition that the eyes can perceive, yet, it looks especially mesmerizing right now. I stand on the visibly largest bridge crossing the Ganga river, marking the start of this holy city. The oldest bridge was replaced by the latest one. The double-decker bridge is barely visible which identified the city in films like Raanjhna. A train chugs through the bottom and some two-three people walk by on the top every few minutes. Dawn will break soon.

 

I stand here, after hours of trying to sleep. The breeze keeps pushing me back, tailwinds of trucks passing on the highway behind me keep thrusting me forward, and I keep swinging like a disoriented pendulum. I came here to see the end. Option 1: Fall on the bottom of the pillar, crack your skull, instant, and certain death.  Option 2: Fall in the water, I’m high enough for the surface tension to shatter my bones, I writhe in pain and eventually drown. Another possibility is I enter the water safe and sound, the cold water and strong current give me a long, slow and agonizing death, my body is found somewhere downstream. 

This is it, my dream of twelve years is finally becoming a reality. I climb and sit on the edge, anytime now.

“Hey, why are you here? What are you planning to do now?”

“I have seen it all, I have reached the tipping point of my life, it cannot get any better. I will jump and end it all.”
“Yes, that’s the best you can do, I mean, you being here or just disappearing, wouldn’t make a difference in the grand scheme of things. Your existence is known to a maximum of a thousand people. About 500 remember that they met you. About a hundred remember you regularly. Some fifteen-twenty people care about your existence, only to eventually benefit from you. NO ONE ADORES YOU. It would be for the best for you and everyone around you if you died.”

“Wait. You have so much to live for, didn’t you want to go Bungee Jumping? You could do it if you didn’t jump now.”

“This isn’t much different though.”

All three of us laughed as a tear rolled down my face.

“Yeah, that’s true but you wanted to buy a car, raise a kid, live a happy life?”

“But isn’t that inviting more trouble down the line? Every change brings discomfort.”
“Exactly, right from choosing the pursuit of engineering. No, from choosing science. No, wait, from the first time I ever spoke, I have only invited trouble to myself and the people around me. My words, my actions, never solved anything, but definitely sprouted seeds for trouble.”

“Yeah, and you were also responsible for 9/11, don’t listen to him. You’re doing good. You’ve got a healthy lifestyle, a stable job. You are who many aspire to be. You can do anything you want to.”

“Haha, as if you’ve ever had anything in control.”

“That’s true, I have never had anything in my control. Isn’t that the truth of the world? No matter what decision I make, it always has consequences beyond my control. What am I doing, where am I headed? I will never have the life I wanted. It is all pointless. I will never know what’s next and uncertainty is never good. I can count the major events left in my life on the fingers of just one of my hands and most of them aren’t happy ones.”

“You can’t end here. People look up to you. They tell their kids your story. Wouldn’t you want that story to get better every time you meet them? Or do you want it to become a foreshadowing?”

“That is a part of the problem. I very much hate the life I have lived till now, I do not want anyone to follow my footsteps of all people.”

“The underachiever, the meta of our generation. You are spitting on the greats by calling yourself one. You idiot, people your age are running corporations, changing the world and whatnot. You are the worst example to follow. You yourself don’t want to be you. You are everything that’s wrong with you.”

“True, nothing I ever did has made a difference. My whole life has been a compromise. I have never had what I wanted. I was and never will be satisfied with what I have, and will live my entire life hustling for something better trying to unsuccessfully satiate myself. I do not want this. This is the worst part: I will never know what I truly want. What will make me full? A woman? A big home? Many big homes? Kids? Grandkids? Supercars? I guess I dreamed too big, haha. You get the gist.” 

“Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. Not opening the box could be the biggest mistake you make. Walk back, and you can set a better example than the one you would if you jumped.”

“Haha, a box of chocolates can’t have ice creams or potato chips. I know where my life is headed, the last time I got a surprise gift was in sixth grade when my parents got me a digital camera for my birthday. There haven’t been any welcomed surprises after that. My life is not a movie, if I jump down and swim to the next town, they wouldn’t cover me in papers. They would put me in an asylum.”

“That reminds me, your birthday is coming up. Let’s postpone this ordeal until that day, the sun is up too. You do not deserve a release so soon, you should suffer more. Wouldn’t it be poetic to do it that day?”

“Yeah, not knowing what to do when they sing happy birthday would be the best torture. How bothersome, I loathe that day. I have to pick my own gift, sometimes I pick it months before or after, depending on when I need something. I have to plan a party for a bunch of ungrateful nobodies, who would dissolve in the crowd as soon as the party’s over. Leaving a debt to be fulfilled only on their birthdays.”

“Hey, you came here to celebrate that. A birthday with your parents after 4, maybe 5 years.”

“Yeah, let’s call today a trial run for what we will do on that day. Everyone will be tired from the party, it would be easier to escape.”

“Yeah, let’s head back.”

 

The sun shines from way above the horizon. People have started their days. Cattle owners, taking their herds of buffaloes to pasture. Milkmen cycling with huge tin containers on either side of the bicycle, headed to deliver or sell it at the “Satti”. Dust flows as school buses and vans rush on the roads to force start the dozy kids’ day. “You coward.” 

I put my head down. My cheeks keep getting wet, my breath keeps pacing and I blame it all on the dust. No one turns their head, ever. “They all have their problems to deal with, not everyone is as weak or has the time to lament over such issues.” The same sound keeps screaming at me on my way back. “You coward, you’ll never have the courage to do what you want. You can’t even JUST DIE. People work very hard to live and your puny, pathetic self can’t even do that. You can never be happy for you will NEVER BE SATISFIED.”

I reach home, wipe the mix of dew, dust, sweat, and tears off my face. Maa sips her daily tea while watching the headlines. Advertisements start, and she changes to some religious channel as I walk in. 

“Where were you?” She asks.

I don’t have an answer, I stay silent for a moment, it always makes me look like an intellectual who knows what he is going to say. I answer, “I was just…”

THE VESSEL

Author: Dhruv Yadav

 

Timber, iron, scrapes and paint,

he put them together and he didn’t waste a grain.

There at the shore,

he formed a vessel of his own

To battle the odds of his drowning,

deep down into the unknown.

The boat laid still in the water,

quaint.

Ready to embark on the journey which remained.

While all of his time, energy and efforts were in vain,

for he just sat there in the vessel,

in pain.

Easier would it have been for him to just drown,

for he was just seen as confused and misunderstood

rowing in the crowd.

REMINISCENCE

Author: Afreen Ahmed

 

Looking at the darkening sky

 I can feel that it’s almost over.

As I gaze around and let out a sigh,

I pause and regain my composure.

 

What are we doing? It’s all wrong.

My vision blurry through the smoke.

Searching for the stars, they’re all gone.

Silently, we breathe in and choke.

 

Cascading down, we’re hurting now,

It keeps pouring, stinging us as it falls.

To the end of us, we sincerely bow,

Storms forced upon us by squalls.

 

Life, as we know it, struggling to stand.

Temperatures rising, the skyline glowing.

Extinguished treasures in higher demand,

Memories of rivers that were once flowing.

 

Seven feet of wind-driven snow 

And smoldering remains of forest lands.

Earth belongs to us, we all know,

The quietus by human hands.

 

Look out to the future, but it tells you naught.

We don’t know how to live with a good thing.

This world to become an afterthought,

After we break it into nothing.

 

In spite of how bittersweet I feel, 

A joy tinged with sadness,

When to nature, all we’d do was kneel,

Before everything went to madness.

 

All I ask is for this world not to end.

For better or for worse, we are stuck with this.

We still have time, and much more to mend,

Earth should not be something to reminisce.

 

Cavemen

Author: Divyang Arora

From the day we are born, everything’s fuzzy. It’s like we are surrounded by a layer of haziness and nothing is clear. We are told to live the same life that millions before us lived and billions after us will continue to, and most of us don’t question that. There’s a phase where we all think of rebelling, to go against the norms and challenge something that has stood its ground for years.

In the last few years I have met a lot of people who had a fire in their eyes as they told me that they won’t submit to the society’s expectations, that they would carve their own little niche in the mountain, separate from the cave everybody else has been sitting in. Slowly they all grow tired of carving it and you can see the fire die as they submit to what they sometimes call their pre-written destiny. When there’s already a well-made cave to live in, they say, why should we do all this effort when everybody else is comfortably settling down? Some of those who get close to carving it realise that they would be alone in it and that thought scares them. Maybe people will follow their example and bring their axes to expand that small hole and make another cave, but maybe they wouldn’t. If they don’t, well, nobody’s ready to take that risk. Maybe they realise they can’t build a fire in their hole because it’s too small and doesn’t have enough air for the fire to burn for long. They aren’t ready to stay cold till their hole is big enough. That struggle is more than they can handle and less than what others expect of them.

It’s tough to open your eyes in this cave. Sometimes your eyes are open but you can never be too sure. Is it dark because your eyes are closed or is it because your eyes are open but there’s no light in the cave? Sometimes you are too frightened to open your eyes because God knows what horrible sights wait for you. So you live in your illusions. You refuse to open your eyes and just feel other blind people around you and go wherever they are going because the feeling that you’re not alone gives you comfort. You touch the walls and walk alongside them, failing to acknowledge the idea that there can be paths in other directions.

You walk the tried and tested path, which has led everybody to not exactly a happy, but not horrible either, place. In retrospect they tell you that it’s been a fine journey, forgetting all the sleepless nights and the hopeless ends, because no one remembers bad times when they are gone, and you believe them. You trust their experience and refuse to hover over the idea that maybe what the majority says could be wrong. You live in your cave. You refuse to progress. There will be times when you will try to blame the other blind people that you held onto for the path you followed, but there will be no one to blame because you didn’t see their faces. Maybe then you’ll blame yourself for trusting the wrong person. In the end, though, you’re going to sit around that fire in your cozy cave, telling the newcomers with a sigh what a satisfactory walk it has been, hiding that you wish it had been something more than satisfactory, and they will listen to you, because somethings never change. Because no matter how far we reach, in some ways, we will always be cavemen.

Reborn

Author: Janani Ramachandran


Dewdrops slid down her body
As the snow began to thaw
Uncovering her buried form
That lost its way in the expanse of the perfect white
The sunlight reflecting in her ebony irises for the first time in a long time

One could say she was lifeless
But one look closer
One could feel the slight ministrations of her uncertain breath
Slight yet steady
Like the stream opening to a mighty river
Her ebony irises
Like the inky starless night sky
That conceals a million behind its inky curtains

Her pale arms scratched with blood red scars
Her soft flesh pierced by rough wood and dirt
The fair mixed with the brown
Giving rise to a new hue
The colour of her cocoon
That would give rise to the new her

Her colourless lips encrusted with dried blood
New Ebony hair peeking out from a mass of lifeless strands
Her fat eaten by the ice
Stripping her to her bones
Yet she looked full
In complete harmony with the ice complementing her starved form

They called her a miracle
When they felt a slight twitch in her cold wrist
They had thought that she would’ve snapped
Like the great trees amputated by winter
They’re great arms twisted by the unforgiving cold
Yet there she lay
A subtle pulse in her lifeless form

It should’ve frozen her heart
Crushed her bones
Sucked the life out of her lungs
Iced her blood to bed her in a coffin of ice
There was an endless list of what should have happened
But nothing of what had happened was found in the pieces of parchment

She was alive
Her blood gushing into her veins
Stronger than ever
Her breath like the beginning of a hurricane
The colour returning to her pallid body
Gasps of awe as they watched her arms twitch
Yet what almost everyone missed
Was the drops of liquid lining her closed eyes

Dawn had arrived
The first beam of sunlight hit her heart
A reminder that the wait was over
As her eyes opened
There was a certain light in them
Like a falling star in the inky night sky
That commanded attention and respect
But most importantly fulfilled a wish
It fulfilled hers
She had been reborn

Cooking And Compilations

“Maa! Tell me this. Why is it that I can put in the right amount of salt almost every time? I have never cooked, never been taught about it, then how can I be so accurate with it?” I asked as I sprinkled salt over the pan to caramelize the onions. I must have been cooking some paneer dish, since I cannot cook non-vegetarian food at home. I made dinner that night and everyone felt fulfilled. It was the first time that the biggest food critique, my dad, passed my cooking. I had only cooked Maggi before this, which according to him, is not worth calling food.

“Shivam, you’ve been called to the staff room.” I had been at my best behavior, so I was pretty sure it was not about something I had done. I walked to the staff room and saw a bunch of other kids surrounding Nivedita Ma’am. She was my class teacher in sixth class and she taught English. She called me close and said, “You have a decent pronunciation. If I give you something, will you be able to read it on stage for the morning assembly?” I was excited; it was going to be my first time on stage if you ignore the Bangla play I did in the third standard where the teachers had to feed me my lines by the end. I had to recite the English translation of our national anthem, my first gig.

I was in the fifth standard. Until now, my computer lab was only about presentations but today was going to change my life. “Today we are going to learn about QBASIC: Quick Beginners All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code. It is a programming language; you can make calculations and even draw with this. It is a lot like LOGO, but it can do a lot more.” I learned the most fundamental program that day. The “Hello World” program. I learned a lot of QBASIC that year, all of which I have now forgotten.

“Before performing in front of everyone, I would want you to take part in the debate. I have written something you can use.” She handed me a two-page long speech. It was perfect. Never have I been able to recreate a speech of that caliber, even though it has been ten years since then. It started and ended with a quote, it even had a poem in between. It was perhaps too good for me. On the day of the competition, I choked. Nevertheless, my assembly presentation went nicely.

“I have always noticed that people with sharper minds have very accurate assumptions when it comes to cooking. They add the right amount of salt, spices, tomatoes, etc.” my mother replied. The conversation ended, but I will be honest, it was not the first time I was cooking. I had made Maggi many times before this. Sometimes I would add a lot of vinegar or soy sauce. However, I had never had difficulty adding ingredients I had tasted. I would add anything I found in the kitchen: Pickles, Garam Masala, raw spices, Chat Masala, absolutely anything! Except for the aforementioned mistakes, I was always proud of my creations. It tasted different every time and Maa would always look forward to my new experiments. 

I cannot continue this without mentioning Dhananjay sir. He hammered down the basics of programming into his students, especially the interested ones. It was the only class I looked forward to, in my last two years of school.  Eventually, I realized, anything that a human can do, can be programmed. Some decisions and repetition of certain steps, a permutation of these could describe anything our human mind can comprehend. He would never tell us the shortcuts until we mastered the basics. We would print patterns, sort numbers. Arranging numbers in ascending order can be done in one line. Nevertheless, he made us develop our own way to do it, after which he told us about the existence of the shortcut.

 

These three hobbies influenced me greatly. It was not until recently that I realized how similar they are.

 

A good dish needs a good recipe. There are hundreds of ways to cook but it all starts with choosing the right ingredients. They must be fresh, their taste and textures should complement each other and the spices. The way they are prepared can make a huge difference. Dicing, fine chopping, grating, Julienne cutting, blending, etc. can give a wide spectrum of flavors and taste to the same ingredients. Roasting, shallow frying, deep-frying, steam cooking, etc. are all possible ways and each of them can highlight a different aspect of the same ingredient. The taste should make the person hungrier with every bite while eating half the time and make them feel fuller with every next bite for the next half.

A good speech is always less than 5 minutes long. A good lecture should not have more than 15 minutes of explanation. You need roughly 5 minutes to change the opinion of a person or to implant an idea in the crowd’s mind. A rhetorical question or a statement, preferably a joke, with a deeper meaning is always good to start with. The type of language you use, how formal you are and how you present controversial statements could make or break your speech. You should divide it into sections with interconnected topics. The most crucial step is to connect with the hearts of the crowd. I have never won any prizes for my public speaking, but I have always received a better response from my crowd than my competitors have.

A good program must have comments. After some experience, one can always tell a good code apart from a bad one. When reading a good code, you can visualize what is happening in each step. There are varieties of ways to solve a problem and optimization is the key. Choosing the right language for the right problems is a lot like choosing the right weapon to hunt. You cannot hunt birds with spears. For a problem with strings you would choose Python or JavaScript, for a numerical problem C and for a problem where you need copies of similar items, you would want to use Java.

My best code would be the menu-driven attendance management system I made, using a 2-Dimensional linked list. It was an absolute beauty. All the functions well connected, no bugs, extremely fluid and highly interactive. My masterpiece. I have come all the way from QBASIC and I still have miles to go.

From choking up in my first speech, I gave a monologue for my school farewell. It was filled with witty remarks and anecdotes from my final couple of years at school. Everyone found it relatable and had a great time. I had left my final mark, spoken my final words at school. Another good speech I gave was the one where I prepared to go for a competition but it turned out to be just an exhibition performance. I spoke crystal clear, everything went perfect and the audience was left spellbound. Once, when I had to deliver a poem written by our school’s late great director, my mic malfunctioned and every “sh” came out as an “s” and it came out as a detestable rustic accent. I now write my own scripts, they are nowhere near the first script I got, but the audience always loves it. My dream is to pull off something like Mark Antony from Julius Caesar. I can never speak well during my practice presentations, but I absolutely nail it when it matters.

I am still improving my cooking. I can follow recettes but I cannot combine non-powdered spices to create the real magic of food yet. My best dish would be the Shahi Paneer I made before coming back from my summer vacation. I can also not forget how I once messed up Anchari Paneer by using twice the amount of spices than necessary. If the first were a swim in a lake on a sunny summer day, the latter felt like walking bare feet in the desert and licking sand out of thirst.

Once you light the stove, introduce yourself on the podium or submit the code for checking test cases, there is no turning back. You have to prepare and keep all the ingredients handy; you cannot chop onions while frying your spices. They need care, five extra seconds of frying and you have vaporized their flavors. You have to ensure you are speaking in a flow, every expression, direct or indirect is visible on stage. You might think you covered it up, but a long enough pause, a slight fumble that you correct by repeating the words, it’s all noticed and you lose all the recognition from your audience. Every time you build and compile your code, the entire CPU, all of the hardware engages to comprehend what you have instructed the computer to do. Even if you asked it to do a never-ending job, it will do it until stopped. This could crash the system; damage the hardware, this small bug is enough to destroy the entire motherboard. One lazy person created the Y2K problem, which could have ended up with us losing all our digital data as we entered the new century.

All three of them, are the same. It is all about living in the moment, enjoying what you are doing and not thinking about anything else in the world. Every time I put on the frying pan, step on a stage or compile my code, time stops. My mind clears out, and all I can think of is what I am doing. My senses become sharper than a doe in an unknown part of the forest. A slight change of smell and my dish might be ruined, a short hum and my speech is gone, and a missing semicolon is like a murder amidst a crowd. I cannot afford to make a mistake, if I make one; I have to live with it. Every hobby is an escape from the daily life, where you live the moment with no pain from the past or worry about the future. “A hobby might not define who you are, but it definitely affects some aspects of your personality.” I leave you with this statement to ponder upon and the fact that Adolf Hitler made great paintings (like the one above), to support the above statement.

Sands Of time

Author: Janani Ramachandran

 

Far away in the dirty suburbs of Kashmir,

The army commander held his breath for life,

The hidden time bomb ticking every second,

 

Down south of the subcontinent,

A woman lay dying in her drug induced sleep,

The malign cancer engulfing her cells every second,

 

In the East of the peninsular land,

The mighty river raged on ravaging livelihoods,

An old widower clutching his departed love’s portrait,

A serene smile on his wrinkled face,

as he watched his life ebb away every second,

 

Due west of the diverse nation,

Silent hospital walls disturbed by the cries of a mother,

Complications in the birth increasing every second.

 

The four lives lay far apart by the compass rose,

Their strings of fate woven by only one link,

Hovering above their heads stands the fragile hourglass,

In it flow the sands of time in their own accord,

Completely in-cognizant of the mayhem and chaos,

Though the aftermath of the dance of fate unknown,

Lie a certain beauty to the lingering uncertainties.