There is always a chance that the road got missed. There is always a probability that along the journey, the wrong fork was chosen. There is always the gnawing dread that you have been lost.
All these years I had looked at the horizon and thought that somewhere in the future I would be there. I have hunted for the light that sprang up one summer morning, and I have ran and stumbled to reach the elusive brightness. During nights I have sprawled out on the paddy fields watching the dimness of the stars, resting is an uncomfortable bliss. The mornings had prodded me to keep on going, a step at a time, not counting the steps but following the un-trodden road, with the sight fixed at a distant life.
And somewhere it had happened. There were years of smoke and mist, days of blind darkness, moments of fear and hesitation. Somewhere, along the hidden path, the bright light became diffused, diminished, and died in a lone cry of night. Nebulous blobs of dreams and hopes swirled in despair, draining the tired body of warmth.
Somewhere among those meandering paths, I got sidetracked, destroyed, lost. The horizon is dark, and a black dawn approaches.