Prose, Passion and Ponderings.

Often, amidst the abhorrent humdrum of daily routine, there's a feeling: how my heart is an old read pile of books, peeping at you.  And like every miser bibliomania, who boast to have such old antics; rarely found, You too, very proud amidst the aesthetic lacking crowd. But what's there in those old books? It's all read and digested! There's a quest to gain new insights and those books what do they have? All that you already know: no new story, no new adventure, no new theory,  Ah! It's too dull.  My heart is like a cup of coffee, getting cold in desertion. You dismiss it, for lacking the warmth but it was you, who deserted it into the cold.. Ah! My pretty little heart,  It is like the worn out bangles of a young blossoming woman, who once found love in every glance, and beautified herself in front of a mirror with khol, lipstick and those jingling crimson bangles.  But the bangles break and lose their lustre, and they lie in some corner of a box; u...