Streets are full of souls all thinking at once, the energy that brings us together is caught up between right and wrong, between emptiness and fulfilment

We are wondering souls all walking on a path that leads to where our answers will take us

Are we derived from helplessness?

Are we certainly lost?

I met a certain soul sitting by the park scribbling on a piece of paper

The wind pushed through

her notes flew close to the bin, I saw her looking at them, she rushed to get them before they get devoured by grass and dirt.

I picked them up and handed her the scribbles

She looked,

took her papers and smiled

She left

We are not wonderers of hope

We are wonderers of our existence

We wonder around our scribbles because it means that we are writing a story

We are telling a tale

A tale of solitude

A tale of belonging

Ambitions run free

Our notes are our identity

Our writing is pictures of our life

We represent life with the notion of telling a tale

That is the case of a writer

On the grass

Or in an apartment

We are free in our minds

To think and believe in our characters

To smile and punish our desires

By a tale

That will live longer than our wondering selves