- wry writes. I listen to stories. Some of them are full of romance while others depict the perils of existence. Some say life is tough. Some say its oblivious. I see stories. In eyes of people, who sit alone in parks Some sit in wait. Some sit in vain. I have heard stories, forgotten ad mist, the cacophony of city's ignorance. While some of them are as fresh, as a deeply cut wound in hearts. Some shall always remain mere stories for us. And in all those stories I see a longing irrevocable. Shrieks of loss and regrets. Haughty tales of heritage to descend. Depicting tales of how we evolved, tales of how some of us are no more. And its amazing how we never realize that we mere play a character, in someone else's story of life and we keep on trying to coalesce different fractions of our feeble dreams and foolishly wonder, why don't things happen the way we imagine.