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She looked around, life was perfect,

yet, the perfection wasn’t felt deep within.

She experienced different emotions-pride, anger, but, mostly fatigue.

She needed to stop-stop running, to take a breath.

But, when she did, it made here even more restless.

 

“What’s wrong?”

“Why are you not happy?”

“God! You can’t be happy with even such a perfect life?”

She felt ashamed

It took a random gift from a friend who cared for her to realise what she was missing.

She’d sold her soul to the devil, let her heart be shackled by the brain.

What had changed, you ask?

 

She was running, the way she always had.

She was winning, the way she always had.

She was taking a part of her along, the other part had been left behind.

Panting, she rushed to pull out the old memories from that forgotten drawer.

That funny looking diary with lines scribbled all over,

That worn out copy of a novel, which she’d kept with her , yet forgotten,

Those handmade cards, with silly messages,

That ugly drawing which she’d so proudly made and displayed,

Those strips of paper, which could have been transformed into something so beautiful,

and a blank canvas, still waiting to be filled.

 

She’d found the answer at last-

She’d made people around her happy,

and had forgotten to live for herself.

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