Its not about shakespeare’s use of pathos. Its about my wretched heart. Its not my mistake ;
that I am mature its my pride that I am an individual. With the fingers of my hand, I hold my phone straight to my eyes. I see words appearing before me in black. The cross button on my phone helps me erase the words,which I dont want the people know. But is there any rubber for heart too?
I didnt had any nest inside me that could harbour a dream.a dream which let me leave my home. And what more unfortunate,that home became just a travelling holiday.
Skies turned to grey colour and I met new people. I couldnt find anyone closer to me then myself. I write because ,yes I feel lonely sometimes. People have backstabbed me. Been rude to me but then I am same. I refuse to be socially active now.not because I am unaware of my qaulities but because I feel ignored. I watch them go in hands and I see mine foreever alone. I dont mind being alone all life with my ink and paper but it pierces my heart deep down.
But I am proud of myself. I am me because I am not like others. I dont believe in materialism. I love being alone in a crowd. I have a smile all over my face. And will have when I publish my work. They cant handle even a minute of my life for its perfect and working.
Heart had a good riddance from hatred,but the lesser I moved out the stronger it grew.i want to move out from this silence,break down the inferiority walls and smile like never before.