Pen and Stories.

I sometimes wonder how futile is people's existence. The nuisance of their chores, the utterly sceptical words they speak, merely worth a coal dime. There are nights like these, "weird" if you would like to pen it. At times, it all feels like a spiral staircase, which reaches nothing. There ain ‘t anything bad, but no good either. The Nights crawling into the skull hammering with questions you could never find the answers to, and then suddenly you are lying on the bed lucid dreaming about that one door which lets you escape the eerie of life. And *Boom* you got to wake up just to see the world is as it is, the same mundane reality. You keep alive through all these days . . And one fine night, you choose to see the world for what it is, what it always has been. Blinded by the morals of society, or patterns I must say. People tend to forget the mystical powers of the creation of God. For, you have eyes to find the beauty and mind to embrace it. And when you fail to reach