It calls you. The dusty guitar in your closet. The novel you stopped writing. Your pencils and brushes. They call you. With open arms. You too want to go. Embrace them to content. Relive those days of satisfaction and joy. Strike those cords all along. Fill pages with beautiful words. Paint those canvases with your imagination. But hardly do you know nor do they, you are wooing someone else’s love..
Those books which never called you. The sums which never excited you. The working of machines, which you didn’t know exist. Learning by mind but not by heart. Writing by rote but not by art. All this just for a heavy wallet. So that when you die, you die with your pockets full but heart empty. Cursing yourself all your life, that you married someone else’s bride. And cheated on your true love..