Soliloquy of a solitary walker

The dusk was descending slowly upon the aisles. Dusk which appeared to have smuggled the collective silence of December, and creased it on its sleeves or, perhaps, crowned it on its head. Amid the general drama of sinking sun, nothing spurred the imagination more than the silence. As picturesque as it was pastoral. For certain dives, be that of sun or soul, cup in their cradle a soothing silence of several eternities. Such is the poetic metamorphosis of some characters, at some places in life. Fortune, perhaps, is given to the mysterious pleasures of unfurling its best cards at the most unsolicited of times. Its reticence is at best a reservation. It enthrals only when one is least expectant. Too romantic for fate to play so treacherously a trick on the sentient soul of a man. But that is how it is. Only the invisible is endowed with the incredible. The dice rolls much less with the drift of human desire than with the brush of divine decree. Herein lies the mystery of life.

That life often plunges us in the whirlpool of suffering is a thing fairly evident, but of mysteries, its hand is not as much generous. These fireflies are meant to gleam the nights of a chosen few. Others merely dawdle in its drudgeries. Tears in the eyes, thrill on the lips, what a blessing! Is it not mysterious after all to be plucked, as it were, from the precipice and thrown somersaulting into a whirl of new wail only to be blessed in the ultimate outcome? Such is life.