NEPHART.COM

Drama.

Gossips.

Tantrums.

They keep on going,

flowing like a river

that never stays the same.

Every day

a different swirl,

a different shade.

But even a river

loses its force one day.

Even noise

wears itself out.

Still

some people will peep through the smallest hole,

act like a mole,

tie their fragile prestige

to a wobbly pole.

And the same people

oh, the very same ones

will butter you,

flatter you,

sweet-talk you

just to decorate their cover stories.

Stories you never asked for,

never expected.

Because the pen

oh, the pen writes every flavour.

Truth?

It gets spiced,

twisted,

seasoned

just enough for the reader to stay hooked,

locked inside their own

mental cage.

So flip.

Flip the page.

Keep moving.

One page,

then another page.

Baseless dramas.

Pointless gossips.

Everyday tantrums.

Look at the tree.

It never worries

about being chopped down,

or bearing fruits,

or sprouting leaves,

or blooming flowers.

It just stands

rooted,

breathing,

processing whatever comes its way.

Who are we, then?

Go on

you can say drama is normal,

just part of life,

and it’s all right.

But no

I’m not convinced.

Maybe this is my drama,

after all.

And as a character

in this grand theatre,

I guess I need to play my role

not perfectly,

not quietly,

but responsibly.

Responsibly.

Isn’t it?