It's only in these wee hours of the night,when the city rests. It's only when the nights are so horrifying that I can no more convince myself to persevere.
I am a happy woman otherwise. It's rare that you don't find me break out into fits of laughter at mundane jokes and grope my aching belly soon after
I am like that great fig tree with the vibrant aura of victory against autumn. So fresh and lively. The tree who has submitted her life to the virtue of kindness.That who apparently knows of nothing but joy. It's baffling how never ever could a living being fathom what demons she hides between layers of skin that accumulate to harden into the bark over the years of struggle between life and death. The tree that has faced all the winds slash through her soul up till this moment.
But the thought of storms scare her now. She is all but happy. A plethora of melancholic clouds have drenched her to the skin over time.
You say, "Too bad. Sorrow will dilapidate her". Well, she knows better. But how often have you seen a tree chop herself just to grow new skin?
Storms disappear. Storms never really disappear.