Kya itne bure hai hum? Kya inte gheenone hai hum? Kya itni badi thi hamari khata ke hamare hayaat ko hi mana jaye saza? Bharte na bhare ye zhakam, Kya itne bure hai hum? Kya itne bure hai hum? When crying doesn't give out tears but blood, heart doesn't beat but palpitates and life doesn't seem to fall in place, you know its not working. You know nothing's working. That feeling's strange, devasting actually. But you know what's worse? Getting used to it, getting used to this feeling, the feeling of being lost, the feeling of being hollow, the feeling of being alone in a room full of people. When one tries to latibulate reality through obscurities, it just tangles furthermore. Just like a thread sticking out of a cloth. The more you pull that thread, the more that cloth falls apart. Instead of stopping our recklessness when we try to break that one thread, the other untangled ones labyrinthine. A snowflake, quite a lot, resembles the feeling of being home to a drifter. Implausibly alluring, yet ephemeral. As soon as the snowflake comes in contact with our warm skin, it melts away, depositing its coldness in our hearts.