So that's it?

Wind blows as leaves fly in front of the clear blue sky. Not a sign of any bird in the sky. Tall tress sway around wailing, bidding adieu. It was nice having you to talk to, they say. I stand there mute. Words fail me as i look down not sure about what to say. All alone in the morning after frequent night outs, these trees used to cheer me on. These guardians of my dreams used to placate me promising to be there when i woke up, promising nothing would change, it will all remain the same. They wouldn't judge me, they wouldn't question, they wouldn't talk they'd just listen. Silently they used to nod accepting my side of the debate without ever debating me. No matter how a week would end they'd stand there waiting for me. Happy to listen to me after a tiresome week. I am not the most interesting of men and it rarely bothered them. They'd just be happy to have someone to talk to as was i. Tears are merely physical materialization of emotions. This thoughts kill me as i say farewell. I hope i long for this eternal silence that every day began with. I hope i don't get satisfied with the noise. I hope i keep writing or have anything good to write about. Kal aur aaenge nagmon ki khilti kalia chunnen wale, mujhse behtar kehne wale tumse behtar sunne wale. Fir koi mujhko yaad kare kyun koi mujhko yaad kare, magroor zamana mere lie kyun waqt apna barbaad kare. Mein pal do pal ka shayar hun. Why do i write this? The blog i mean if not for recognition of some kind or some kind of narcissist approach towards life. I could have kept a private diary. Every author is a narcissist. If there is a good author who isn't, you've most probably not heard of him for he shall never make his work public. Maybe the greatest authors kept the best of their written material to themselves. Birds are chirping now, goodnight alarm for me. if you read this and like it, imagine what beautiful material i shall never show to the world and die of envy .[:)] why so serious, son?