An Old Grumbling Buffoon

On these lonely and forlorn days, the word past, more than the word future, grew and piled high as the castle wall. I acquired a tendency to measure my future from the length of the setting sun on other side of this view obstructing wall. As the wall becomes higher, the sunset rays become shorter, and in time of this last part of downing sun, I wonder how far did I come. Though I roamed in this town and that village as a lonely shadow without company. I was visited this theatre and that stage with no ardent audience to watch my performance, before knowing, I found myself, shabby and run-down, standing on an other side of thickened wall. For the wall stands there all the time nonetheless to intimidate this old grumbling buffoon, stepping on the shattered sun rays that crashed to the wall and fell on the ground, I am gathering the antics and jokes I have left on the other side of the wall. Though the antics no one ever delighted for and the jokes no one ever laughed at, but was my precious alter ego I should pick them up and tell the story by scribbling them on the wall with a finger tip wet with my tears, how badly I was treated from my surroundings and how miserably I led my troubled life, while I was dwelling on the other side of the wall. Though my story my be noting but a graffiti that may be carried away by a tomorrow’s violent wind.