Crossroad

I stand today at a junction in life,

where important decisions have to be taken.

Where the past has to be shrugged off,

and it may not be necessarily for a better furture.

He scribbles on a borrowed piece of paper which has Rama Stationery store printed in small at the top. His handwriting has periodic wavy pattern to it. He thinks it is because of the to and fro movement of the train. May be.

He sits alone in the compartment. A boy, around 12-13 years of age stands at the door, his body half inside the compartment, half outside.

There is vast emptiness around me,

but my mind feels cluttered.

I don't know to where I belong, to the emptiness or to the clutter,

or may be its half here and half there.

He laughs at his own desperate attempt to create poetry. He should stop trying to do things that he isn't good at. He tells himself.