I’m looking at the palm of my hand. No fortune-teller or seer could say the secret that was hidden among the lines of my fate or if they could say, I would have never believed. Memories that melt in liquid nuances of cream fading in pink. The fluffy, sugary colour of my childhood turning into crimson as the cruel teen age time came. A blossom so early slapped by an icy wind. It could die, instead it kept on living a half-life in the shadow of black wing. Too many strokes have crumbled my whole being, till I thought that I deserved to suffer, till I thought that I wasn’t worth happiness. I’ve ripped my soul with wrong choices, causing me an inexplicable harm. My self destruction mixed with evil twists of fate made me close up in a fortress of silence. Silence of emotions. The blossom had become a bulletproof rose outside, but still throbbing and vibrating inside. I could hide my grief of an unexpressed life behind the walls of that fortress, but I couldn’t hide the greatest regret of my life. I couldn’t hide it to myself. It stayed like a crow on my shoulder to remind me what I was missing most. That crow forced me to look at the wound of my horrendous mutilation. I’ve never had a love in my life. Never said “I love you”, never heard it. I sacrificed my life on the altar of loneliness. So visible are the lines on my hand. Visible and clear. They’re not saying that I had to waste my existence in a fortress. No. When everything seemed determined and known a ray of light filtered through the walls of the fortress and made the crow fly away.