The Beautiful Charade

You know the thing about the late hours of a monsoon night?

The hours when everything is soaked in a translucent black? The hours when the canvas of silence is painted with an abstract splattering of raindrops? The hours when everything out there merges into a silhouette of the one at the back of your mind? The hours when all the ghosts of your existence till this moment become a breathing and burning reality that engages the age old ember in your hearth into a sudden untamable fire? The hours than entice your lusty soul into an eventually scorching tale of what could and would have been and leaves you unquenched at the other end of it? The hours that make it hard to breathe as you inhale the questions on your obvious sense of self, if this is what you are? The hours that perpetually put you at the edge of a whirlpool of deafening howls of the whisper of your demons seeking to avenge your angels who did not cry because you pretended to be an epitome of strength? The hours that suck you into the uncharted and long lost alleys of your mind but then pull you out of them without letting you see their ends because the roots of physical realm are not strong enough to stand their gravity? The hours that eventually push you into a pit of colossal darkness after capturing the part of your universe that this world will never know of?

You know the thing about those hours?

They put on the best charade of their sadist self so as to lure you and me into them again on some night like this.

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